


A Winding Way

by nanaa127



Category: Rivers of London - Ben Aaronovitch
Genre: Angst, First time (off-screen), M/M, Peter is having a bit of a crisis, Post-Book: Broken Homes, Succubus, casefic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-08
Updated: 2019-05-12
Packaged: 2020-01-06 14:22:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 23,329
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18390176
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nanaa127/pseuds/nanaa127
Summary: Relationships need repairing after Peter discovers he might not be as straight as he thought and freaks out about it, just a bit.Also, Seawoll asks the Folly for a favor.





	1. One

I leaned against the wall next to the entryway of the breakfast room, just out of sight so that its occupants couldn't see me. _You've already made a proper mess of things,_ I told myself. _Just get it over with._ I would have also said that I couldn't possibly make things worse that I already had, but I've learned not to underestimate myself in such matters. Molly walked by with a pastry tray as I was faffing about in the hallway and gave an angry little hiss when she saw me. She obviously wasn't happy with me, and that was fair enough. I wasn't particularly happy with myself either.

"Yeah, I know," I said. "But I'm here now, aren't I?"

Molly sniffed, and the amount of disdain she packed into the tiny noise was impressive. She then turned up her nose and swept past me and into the breakfast room. 

"Alright then," I replied. I took a deep breath and straightened the lapels of my best sport coat. I'd never be as sharply dressed as Nightingale - my current yearly wardrobe allowance would maybe buy me a tie at Nightingale's favorite tailor shop - but apologies had to be made and I figured Nightingale would appreciate the effort. Assuming he didn't throw me out on my ear, that is.

Varvara and Nightingale were already seated at the table and quietly eating. Both looked up when I stepped in. Varvara raised an eyebrow at me, decided I was less important than her breakfast and returned her attention back to her kedgeree. Which was fine, because she wasn't exactly the point of my focus either. I tried not to stare at my governor, but the sight of him caught me like a tractor beam and despite a lot of mental squirming, I couldn't shake his grip.

Nightingale stared back at me and for a blink, his expression twisted into a gut-punch combination of deep hurt and sheer relief. It rightfully made me feel like an utter wanker, and if anyone else had put that look onto my governor's face, I probably would have wanted a word or two with the person that put it there. His expression smoothed out immediately, which my guilty conscience appreciated, and he stood like the gentleman he was, stiff upper lip firmly in place. He was dressed in Nightingale casual, which today meant a pair of grey lightweight wool trousers, a pale blue buttoned shirt that was so crisply starched I probably could have used the collar to slice myself some bread, and no jacket or tie. He unfortunately looked really fucking gorgeous, which really didn't help my problem.

"Peter. I'm so glad you could join us," Nightingale said. Despite the welcoming words, his tone was more neutral than Switzerland during an international conflict. "Won't you sit?"

"Ah, thanks," I said awkwardly and shuffled towards the table. "I'll just, um..." I pulled out a chair and plopped down into it. I realized then that there wasn't any place setting for me. It was another flashing sign that Molly was Not Pleased.

Nightingale handed me an empty plate and I filled it up. I'd been too nervous to eat before I'd left my parents' place, so I dug into my food with a single-mindedness that would have made Toby proud and probably would have delighted Molly if I wasn't currently on her shit list. The silence in the room was near stifling, disrupted only by the sound of my determined chewing. I needed to talk to Nightingale, but there was no way that was happening with Varvara and her curious gaze pinging between the two of us so fast that I thought her eyes would start spinning in their sockets. I wondered how long it would take for her to begin prying. As it turned out, it didn't take long at all, and she demonstrated a keen talent for taking an prickly situation and making it worse.

"Well, isn't this nice," Varvara commented brightly. The propped her elbow on the table and rested her chin against the palm of her hand. She was sporting some shiny new jewelry around her wrist that hadn't been there when I'd left the Folly a couple weeks ago. Nightingale had obviously been busy, and I regretted that I hadn't been around to witness his work. "I do love some uncomfortable tension with my breakfast. What happened between you two, then?"

"Nothing happened," I replied. In retrospect, I probably could have sounded a bit more convincing. "I've just been...busy."

"Oh, have you?" Varvara asked lazily. "Busy with what?"

"Police stuff," was the best I could come up with under pressure. To be fair, a good portion of my upstairs brain and the entirety of my downstairs one was still hung up on how good Nightingale looked. Lesley probably would have rolled her eyes at how laughably easy it was to distract me, and I decided not to go down that road. "Very important things."

Varvara hummed skeptically. "I can hardly believe that's why you're sitting there like a naughty schoolboy that's been called into the headmaster's office." She gave me a teasing smile, and we probably would have carried on like that if the next words out of her mouth hadn't been, "I would have guessed that you two had some sort of lovers' row. Please tell me you've finally slept together."

"Varvara," Nightingale cut in sharply. "That is quite enough." He made it clear that it wasn't Thomas Nightingale speaking, but rather the Nightingale, feared war hero and wizardly bane of the demi-monde. The Night Witch visibly shrank back in her seat, her grin wiped away.

"Sorry," she muttered. 

"That will be all," Nightingale told her, neatly folding his hands together. We both watched as Varvara stood and gave something that resembled a shallow curtsy in Nightingale's general direction before wisely beating a hasty retreat. I can't say I wasn't tempted follow in her footsteps.

So that left just me and my governor. The familiarity that had grown during the year plus we'd spent living together had suddenly vanished in the wake of what had happened between us. I really wished that Varvara hadn't mentioned schoolboys because I suddenly felt like one but with ten times the childishness and stupidity. My first serious relationship - her name was Victoria Abbey, and she'd had pale skin, dark hair and had towered over me as she'd hit her growth spurt early and I'd hit mine late - had progressed through many awkward stops and starts while we both tried to figure out how to deal with our raging hormones and their intensely amplifying effects. We'd fumbled through a lot of firsts together, and even though I've broadened my experience since those days, there was one 'first' that had never even crossed my mind until Nightingale, and I'm not referring to the magic. 

He sat before me all stiff and beautiful like a proper brooding Victorian love interest and I could feel the ghost of his lips on mine, gently inquisitive at first and then much more demanding, later. That opened the floodgates and suddenly, I fell into a cloud of Nightingale-related sensations. The touch of his long, clever fingers tracing lightly over my skin, the firm, solid length of his body under my own, the sweet little noise he made at the back of his throat when I'd nipped at the hollow beneath his jaw, the heat of his incredible mouth wrapped around me - I'd never given any thought to what shagging a man might be like, but it was safe to say Nightingale had set the bar really, really fucking high. Problem was, despite the fact my body was obviously loving the memory and eager to have another go in real life, my brain was still freaking out a bit and wondering whether it would be too much to get up and just run away. Again.

"I'm sorry," I blurted out. Ghosting has never been my style and yet that was exactly what I'd done to Nightingale, never mind that he probably had no idea that such a term existed. I wrapped my ankles around the legs of my chair in an effort to keep my arse planted in the seat. "I am. I never should have...you know." My eloquence knew no bounds.

If possible, Nightingale's posture became even more rigid. I worried that his spine would snap if he sat up any straighter. A pained look creased the corners of his eyes. "As your superior officer, I should be the one to apologize for any inappropriate conduct. Mistakes were made, and I hope that you will believe me when I say that I sincerely regret them."

"Oh, fuck," I muttered. I had always assumed that Nightingale was into blokes from the moment I'd set eyes on him, before I knew who he was. This was without much actual hard evidence, however, and it was no wonder the Met had originally wanted to send me to CPU. Now, I was struck by the question as to whether I'd been completely, embarrassingly and - God forbid - illegally off the mark. I'd spent the past two weeks dithering over how I felt about the possibility that I had tumbled arse-first out of the closet because I'd somehow ended up banging my boss. I hadn't stopped to consider what Nightingale thought of the entire affair, but an apology about 'mistakes' and 'regret' wasn't exactly screaming, 'yes I thought having sex with each other was a brilliant idea'. He'd seemed willing enough at the time... The mixed messages were bringing on a confusion-induced headache and I buried my head in my hands. " _Fuck._ "

"Peter," Nightingale said gently, and my God, when he said my name like that, it went straight to my...everything. I was finding it much harder to be ambivalent about my potential feelings for Nightingale and the surprise birth of my bisexuality when I was actually sitting in the man's presence, listening to that velvety posh accent of his. "Should you decide that you can no longer continue working at the Folly under my supervision, please rest assured that I will release you from your vow and ensure that you are immediately transferred to different unit."

 _What?!_ My head shot up. "Are you trying to get rid of me?" I'm proud to say that my voice didn't crack, but the question came out more harshly than I'd intended.

Nightingale's eyes widened to epic proportions and I'd have laughed if I wasn't currently trying to stave off a meltdown. "No, I'm simply - "

The rest of his thought was cut off by the ringing of the doorbell, and both Nightingale and I twitched in surprise. Guests at the Folly weren't exactly a common occurrence as most people had no idea we existed, and many of those that did generally liked to stay as far away as possible for fear of catching a bad case of the supernatural.

Nightingale sighed. "Excellent timing," he murmured. He gestured at Molly, who happened to be hovering in the doorway. Of course I hadn't noticed, and I wondered how much of our conversation she had overheard. "Molly, if you would, please?"

She glided away and soon after, heavy footsteps sounded down the hall, echoing in the silence blanketing me and my boss. Nightingale immediately stood, smartly tugging on the cuffs of his shirt to straighten the sleeves. I followed his lead and it was a good thing too because our guest was none other than DCI Alexander Seawoll. Obviously, the rest of my conversation with Nightingale was going to have to wait. Seawoll paused in the entryway, trying very hard not look as if he'd just stepped into a leper colony. His sharp eyes took in our food-laden table and he waved us back into our chairs.

"Hello, Alexander," Nightingale said politely as he ignored Seawoll's gestures. "To what do we owe the pleasure?"

I stayed standing as Nightingale and Seawoll eyed each other like two bull elephants that were trying to decide whether to go full aggro or not. Nightingale had once summed up their relationship by saying that he had Seawoll had common goals but different perspectives. Seawoll generally agreed with that sentiment but with a lot more red-faced swearing and indignation over the fact that magic actually existed and worse, had the indecency to knock off the good citizens of London on his watch. I didn't know whether there was a particular past case that had set them against each other or whether Seawoll just had an innate dislike of 'weird bollocks' and anything associated with it, but I think it was safe to say that the events of the past year and a half hadn't done much to improve Seawoll's opinion of my governor, or of the Folly in general. 

The head of the Westminster MIT yanked out Varvara's chair for himself and sat down unceremoniously. "Sorry to stop by so early," he muttered grudgingly. "Didn't know you'd be eating."

"That's quite alright," Nightingale replied, settling himself back down. I followed suit like the good lackey I was. "You're welcome to help yourself if you'd like. Molly always makes more than we could possibly eat."

Nightingale was faultlessly gracious, and I watched out of the corner of my eye as Seawoll struggled with how to respond. As far as I could tell, Nightingale and Seawoll's only interactions were about work, and most conversations went something like this: 

"Alexander, I need to tell you something about one of your cases and you aren't going to like it."

"Does it involve the M-word?"

"It most certainly does."

"Then I don't want to hear it, so fuck off, Thomas, and your little dog too."

Whatever reason had brought Seawoll to our table that morning was unlikely to be about an official live case, otherwise I would have gotten a summons from Stephanopoulos or Guleed for the initial assessment before deciding whether it was necessary to bring in the big guns. Thus, the usual operational procedures did not apply and the absence of those guidelines apparently left Seawoll at a loss as to how to interact with my boss in a civil manner. He hid his uncertainty by stabbing a couple of sausages with the serving fork and making short work of them. He chewed for a few minutes and made a strange face before finally grumbling, "I've come to ask a favor."

To his credit, Nightingale merely clasped his hands on the table and asked, "Oh?" 

For a copper, favors can be tricky buggers. Under no circumstances were we to accept or offer favors to the public, on pain of being strung up by our toes by DPS and being walloped about the head with a copy of our Code of Conduct. Between law enforcement agents, favors could range anywhere between overlooking a few pints consumed while on duty to accidentally misplacing key evidence. DPS generally did not look kindly upon these events either. 

Seawoll frowned. "Not that kind of favor, you smug bastard," he said. "A personal one."

"Ah, I see." Nightingale deliberately wiped invisible specks of food from the corners of his mouth and I forcibly had to tear my eyes away from his lips. The expression on his face suggested that he was at a complete loss as to what Seawoll could possibly want from him. I'd like to think that I have a pretty active imagination, and even I had a hard time thinking of anything dire enough to drive Seawoll into the loving, magical arms of the Folly on a weekend morning, short of a vampire nest suddenly appearing in his toilet. And even then, I think he might have preferred going about his business pretending like he didn't have little love bites all over his arse.

"This is your fault, you know. I'm sure of it," Seawoll said, tapping his finger very firmly against the table. I got the impression that he would have much rather shoved it into Nightingale's chest. "Shite like this never popped up before you constantly started sticking your fucking nose in my business."

"My nose only goes where it is needed," Nightingale replied blandly. "That's the agreement. Perhaps you'd best tell me how it is I can help you, Alexander." He did not follow that up with, "Because I'd like for you to bugger off as soon as possible so I can get on with my day," but I'm sure he wanted to.

Seawoll glared at Nightingale, and if looks could kill my governor would have merrily burst into flames. "It's my nephew. He's just...fucking fading away."

Nightingale frowned. "I'm sorry to hear that."

"You have to understand, Devin's had a rough go of it. Devin's mum, my older sister, died when he was very young, and I've been his guardian ever since. Piece of shite father was nowhere to be found. He's always been a little odd and difficult, but it's gotten worse recently."

Nightingale and I exchanged a quick glance as we unconsciously slipped back into our easy work partnership, our own issues momentarily forgotten. I had enough cousins and not-cousins kicking around with difficult family situations for this to sound familiar, and it didn't exactly strike me as a Falcon issue. Sometimes it just took a while for trauma to bubble up to the surface and when it did, it could manifest in unexpected ways. Nightingale apparently agreed. "Are you quite certain our expertise is required?" he asked delicately. "Perhaps a specialist doctor would be more helpful. I'm sure Abdul could recommend someone." 

"If the doctors had actually been fucking helpful, I wouldn't be sitting here now, would I? Do I look like a complete fucking idiot?"

Nightingale steepled his fingers and took a deep breath. I could almost hear him counting to ten. "If this isn't a mundane matter, there must be something specific that brought you here to the Folly. Let's have it, Alexander."

Seawoll sighed heavily and threw himself against the back of his chair, which creaked in startled protest. "Look, I've been dragged into enough of your weird bollocks to be able to pick up on its nasty stink." He was back to trying to stab his finger through the solid oak surface of our breakfast table. "I don't know what's happened to him, but it's unnatural." 

Nightingale leaned forward, curious and appropriately sympathetic. It was the same expression I'd seen on his face when he questioned particularly difficult witnesses. I hoped that Seawoll didn't recognize it as such. "Alright then. Let's assume that it is. When did this begin?"

"I don't know. We haven't kept in touch as much as we should have since he's moved out, especially in the past month or so," Seawoll said a bit bitterly. I winced a bit on the inside, knowing why he'd been so preoccupied. The investigation DPS was running cast its net far and wide and had caught even a big fish like Seawoll. He hadn't been Lesley's official governor when she'd turned dark side, but I knew he still considered her to be one of his own. 

"Has he said anything to you about it that made you think it would be something magical?"

Seawoll visibly and unsuccessfully fought the urge to cringe when Nightingale said the word 'magical'. At this point, it was probably just reflex. A deep crease appeared between his brows and he rubbed a meaty hand over his face. "He claims to have a nightly visitor, and I'm not talking about a bloody rent boy." Seawoll winced and gave my governor a sideways glance. "Sorry," he said.

Nightingale raised an eyebrow. "Whatever for?" he asked mildly.

Seawoll coughed. "Never mind."

"And you think this 'nightly visitor' is having a negative impact on the health of your nephew."

"Yes, and fucking hell if I know what it is. All I know is that I don't want it anywhere near Devin."

Nightingale cleared his throat. "I see." He nodded to Molly, who had reappeared in the doorway. She slipped in to take away the platters of cooled food. 

"All I'm asking is for you to come have a look. Trust me, I'd almost prefer that he need to be in therapy for the next twenty years than think that he's gotten caught up in your unnatural bullshit." Despite the hostile words, the expression on his face was almost desperate. DCI Seawoll might have the air of an old boy cliché straight from an era when the Met hadn't been so picky about the details of how crimes were solved or where that fancy new Rolex came from, but he was about as modern a police officer as I'd ever met. He was shrewd and recognized talent when he saw it, even if it came in the form of a surly lesbian, a perky blonde woman or a black Muslim ninja. Seawoll wasn't shy about using whatever resources he had at his disposal to get the job done, even if he couldn't stand the sight of said resource. 

"Of course, I'll come and investigate." Nightingale glanced questioningly at me and I nodded. I might have been a misguided fool with some unresolved issues on the back burner, but that was no excuse to be unprofessional. "We'll look into it. For your nephew's sake, I also hope this a mundane matter." But really, if things were odd enough for Seawoll to come seek my governor's help, I don't think any of us were holding our breath that it would turn out that way.


	2. Chapter 2

Seawoll's nephew lived in Swanley, a small village that tickled the edge of Greater London. Nightingale and I had agreed to visit the nephew and poke around to see if we could turn up anything related to weird bollocks. I sort of enjoyed the idea that Seawoll's nephew might be some sort of hedge wizard, but Nightingale said he doubted that was the case.

My car might have been a more comfortable ride for the longer drive, but there was no chance that Nightingale was showing up to a meeting on Seawoll's turf in a cheap little Asbo, not that he'd say so out loud. Normally I'd jump at any chance to ride in the Jag - the swag of a vintage Jaguar never wears off - but the large pink elephant that followed us into the car did its best to ruin the experience. The only thing that could have made it worse was having Seawoll in the back seat, but he'd decided that being stuck in a vehicle with the Met's resident magician and magician-in-training was more than he could handle in one day.

We left the Folly a couple of hours after Seawoll's surprise drop-in, as he had a briefing to attend first and for some reason didn't trust us to be alone with his nephew. I fiddled with the radio and set the dial to something inoffensive to both our tastes as Nightingale guided us away from the familiar confines of the city and towards the coast. Rain had begun to fall as we crossed the Thames and hit New Kent Road, and despite the fact that I could barely see out the windscreen, Nightingale didn't seem bothered by the terrible wipers that were utterly botching their one and only job. I made a mental note to fire and replace them, assuming that I wasn't kicked out of the Folly and still around to do so. Since we were both trapped in a car hurtling along at an inadvisably high speed - in Nightingale's view, speed limits were things that happened to other people - I supposed it would be an ideal time to revisit the conversation that had been interrupted by Seawoll, but I couldn't bring myself to broach the subject again. I'd apparently exhausted my daily allotment of emotional courage, and seeing as how I was both male and English, stewing in my own guilt seemed the better option. 

For the next quarter of an hour or so, the only sound in the Jag was the staticky drone of the radio news show I'd put on, and as we moved out of range, even that faded away to white noise with an occasional crackle of music. I turned the radio off and tried to occupy myself by mentally comparing the first Hobbit film with the first fifty pages of the book, because that's about as far as I'd gotten and was ever going to get. My eyes had just begun to glaze over when Nightingale cleared his throat.

"So Peter," he started, and I could immediately tell that he was gearing up to have one of those conversations that would likely cause much squirming and awkwardness. There was a certain tone of voice that he dusted off for those special occasions, and thank God I'd only heard it once or twice since becoming his apprentice. I much preferred his usual 'chin up, there's a good lad' method of dealing with messy issues. "I never had the chance to ask how you were doing. After what happened with Lesley." 

_Because you ran away from me before we got that far_ , I silently finished for him. Granted, we probably should have had this conversation _before_ banging each other's brains out. "It wasn't one of the top moments of my life," I replied. "But I'll be fine."

Nightingale hummed skeptically and I snuck a glance at his profile. He was staring straight ahead, intensely focused on the wet tarmac. He'd put on a dark blue tie to make himself presentable to the general public. "Will you?"

"Eventually, sure." 

Nightingale sighed. "Losing a friend and colleague is never easy," he said softly. "No matter what the circumstances."

The weight of all the dead wizards at Ettersberg dragged at his words and I shied away from it. No matter what Lesley had done, I couldn't write her off so permanently. "I didn't exactly 'lose' her," I pointed out. "She's still alive, and it's not as if the Faceless Man spirited her away against her will. She made the decision to leave, which means she can make the decision to come back." Not that I believed for a second she would. 

"That's not something we can know for certain. Perhaps he has some sort of hold over."

I snorted and turned my attention back out the window. Raindrops were crawling across the glass in jagged little trails. I traced one with my fingertip. "He does. You know that he's likely promised to fix her face. With magic."

If Nightingale was the type of person to wince and stutter apologies, he might have done so at this point, but since he wasn't, he inhaled deeply and merely allowed the verbal stab to pass. "Peter, if there was anything I could have done for Lesley, I would have done it."

"Okay," I muttered. Despite the fact that she'd quite literally shot me in the back, I found it hard to blame Lesley for what she'd done. I'd had a hard time dealing with the ruin of her beautiful face, so it must have been a thousand times more difficult for her. We all dealt with personal pain differently; Lesley dealt with it by jumping into the arms of an ethically-challenged wanker, and apparently I dealt with it by jumping into the loving arms of my very male boss. 

I had just gotten home from a particularly grueling round of interviews with DPS in the midst of my hopefully temporary probation, and after days of not sleeping well, I had been exhausted. My mind had apparently been working off a two-week delay, because suddenly, everything that had happened hit me like a ten-ton lorry hauling an industrial load of toxic memories. I'd nearly been blown up, fallen off a building, been challenged by a magical nutter and after all that, had been tasered by my best mate for my troubles. Things had forever changed between me and Lesley, and the person I had depended on since I stepped foot into Hendon would no longer be there. 

I had been sitting slumped over in one of the overstuffed armchairs in the reading room when a hand had landed on my shoulder and given it a hesitant squeeze. Nightingale had said my name with such care that I'd reflexively reached up to grab his hand, and after that, things got a bit lost in an endorphin-soaked haze. I remembered the hot trail of kisses he'd placed along my throat, and I also remembered untucking his shirt and sliding my hands underneath it, reveling in the feel of smooth, warm skin over ripples of bone and muscle. We'd ended up in his bedroom where I desperately grabbed at him and pulled him against me, fumbling a bit clumsily but still demanding as much of him as I could get. After we were done, my panicked brain had decided I'd gotten way, way too much and _what the bloody hell had I done_. Instead of lolling about and basking in post-coital bliss like a well-adjusted person, I'd up and legged it, leaving Nightingale to choke on my dust. To make matters worse, I'd then proceeded to completely and thoroughly cut off all contact as I tried to wrap my head around my new reality.

I'd struggled with trying to decide whether I actually fancied my governor, or whether I'd just used him as convenient stress relief, heterosexuality be damned. I didn't actually think that Nightingale would have begrudged me if it was the latter, but it certainly made me feel like a complete arse. I wasn't blind or anything - I could obviously see that, objectively speaking, Nightingale was a good-looking bloke with impeccable taste. He also just happened to have masterful control over mysterious, unseen forces, which I'll admit was really, really fucking attractive. Aside from minor issues like the fact that he was almost a hundred years older than me, he was what my mum would have called a good catch. The question wasn't whether he was a Hogwartsian wet dream, but whether he was dreamy enough to awaken any dormant bisexual tendencies.

"Oh Christ," I muttered, crossing my arms tightly. I was rather beginning to suspect that he most certainly was.

"Peter? What is it?"

"Erm..." I forced my straying thoughts back onto a safe path and tried to remember what we'd been discussing. "How is it that the Faceless Man thinks he can fix Lesley if you can't? Do you think he's really that powerful?"

"It's not simply a matter of raw power, Peter," explained Nightingale. "It's also a question of how you use that power. I did look into it, you know. Anything that could repair the damage to Lesley's face would have required nothing short of a perversion of life."

"So what you're saying is that you could have, but chose not to?"

"What I'm saying is that even if I was capable of it, which I strongly doubt, doing that sort of magic would violate one of the foundational tenets of our order. It would go against everything I've been taught, everything I believe in."

"I see." I chewed on that bit of information. "Hypothetically speaking, if something similar happened to me, you'd stand by and do nothing in order to avoid violating your principles?"

Nightingale was silent for a while. I hadn't had a proper argument with him yet and wondered if this was our big opportunity. Of course, the main reason we never argued was because disagreements almost always ended badly for the junior copper that was dumb enough to challenge the wisdom of his governor. "You're my apprentice, Peter," he finally said. "I would do everything in my power to help you, even if it meant giving my own life."

I appreciated the sentiment and also hoped to God it never came to that. "Lesley was your apprentice too."

Nightingale made a frustrated noise. "I know that," he said, and there was an undercurrent of helpless anger in his voice. It made me feel better, realizing that he might be as incensed as I was about the unfairness of it all. "And I would have done the same for her. But I can't change what I am, Peter. Without those rules, I might as well be the Faceless Man."

And wasn't that a pleasant thought. The next half an hour passed in relative silence as we trekked through the outer districts of London. The sun began to peek out as we drove around Sidcup and I cracked the windows a bit to let in some fresh air. The roaring sound of wind rushing by filled the car.

We hopped off the A20 and turned towards Swanley. Nightingale pulled over on a nearly deserted road and I reached into the back seat to grab our sack of surprises. While I'm sure there was perfectly serviceable grub to be found in Swanley, Molly had obviously been skeptical as she'd packed us a full bag. I reached in pulled out two wrapped sandwiches. I handed the one with a 'T' written on the paper to Nightingale - how Molly got ink to stick to the waxy side was a mystery for the ages - while I gingerly unwrapped the one with the 'P'. For whatever reason, Molly had decided to take pity on me and had made me a cheese and pickle, for which I was eternally grateful. I'd been bracing myself for fried calves brains again. Nightingale's turned out to be egg salad, so it was a good thing the day hadn't been too warm. A little plastic container of cherry tomatoes, bottled water and a thermos of soup rounded out the meal. Seeing as how there were no spoons or bowls, Nightingale and I ended up taking turns sipping out of the cap. We both rolled down our windows to let the late spring air in and the food smells out as we tucked into our food.

"Did you mean what you said earlier today?" I asked, after shoveling down the last of my meal. "About having me transferred away from the Folly?"

Nightingale paused mid-bite. "If that's what you want," he said quietly. He set his half-eaten sandwich down on his lap, which was neatly covered with the wax paper wrapper. 

"And why would I want that?" I asked. 

Nightingale shot me a surprised look. "I had thought...well, you had seemed quite upset, before. Not that I blame you. I took advantage of you while you were in a less-than-coherent state and I realize that my behavior was abhorrent." His expression shuttered as it often did when he was unhappy about something.

"You think you're the one that took advantage of me?" I asked disbelievingly. 

"Of course," Nightingale said. "You looked so terribly unhappy that day. I had only intended to provide a bit of consolation, but I'm afraid that I got rather...carried away." 

Wait a minute - so while I had spent the last two weeks agonizing over whether I'd experienced a life-changing event, for Nightingale - "Oh God. It was a pity fuck?"

A bemused frown turned down the corners of his mouth. "A what? Peter, why on earth - " 

Whatever Nightingale was going to say was rudely interrupted by my jury-rigged mobile, which chose that moment to buzz loudly and insistently. "Damn it," I muttered, wavering between relief and irritation. Nightingale heroically refrained from commenting on the bread crumbs I was spraying all over the Jag's interior while I struggled to get the phone out of my pocket. The timing couldn't have been worse. Or better.

"That'll be Alexander, I imagine," Nightingale murmured. "He's likely wondering where we are." He considered me with a rather intense look and said, "We'll need to continue this later."

As Nightingale had guessed, it was indeed Seawoll ringing to find out why we hadn't yet arrived. He reminded me that the matter we'd agreed to investigate was of great personal importance to him, and that he would very much appreciate it if we could please be on our way with as much haste as we could muster. "You two had better not be faffing about in the bushes looking for unicorns or some such," he said before hanging up. "I haven't got all fucking day."

The dial tone sounded and I stared at my mobile. "He does realize he's asked us to do him a favor? This wasn't how I'd been planning on spending my day." Of course, I hadn't had any actual plans beyond trying to get back into my governor's good graces, and I was cocking that up well and good.

Nightingale shrugged as he turned over the Jag's engine. "Pay it no mind. Bluster is how Alexander expresses his worry."

"That's how he expresses everything. How do you tell the difference?"

"You don't. You just assume he experiences the same human emotions as the rest of us."

As Nightingale put the Jag back in motion, I slouched down as far as I could with a seatbelt strapped against my chest and crossed my arms. Lesley and I had once come to the conclusion that Nightingale's mind was a lot like a circular conveyer belt loaded with boxes. If he said that we'd continue something later, then he would neatly pack the issue up, send it on its way to loop back around in the future and another box would take its place, ready for his full attention. We decided that it was the result of marrying old-fashioned English practicality with a century of practicing the Art. I wouldn't have been surprised if his brain scans showed that his neural circuitry was arranged in an orderly, efficient grid. "You, on the other hand, are an untrained puppy that's been let loose in a park full of squirrels for the first time," Lesley had said over a couple of pints. "Remember the writing on the lion's bum? Squirrels, mate." When I'd asked what that made her, she'd replied smugly, "A bloodhound, obviously." She wasn't wrong. 

It's not as if I'd never been laughed off or rejected, and I've certainly woken up next to partners with some serious questions about my judgement. The revelation that my boss had slept with me because I'd looked a pathetic mess, however, was particularly stinging, moreso because I had no time or space to hide and soothe my wounded ego. I was trying to figure out where this entire conversation landed on my scale of personal humiliation when Nightingale spoke up. "Have you had any thoughts as to what might be affecting Seawoll's nephew?" Next box, please and thank you. 

"A few," I said, forcing my brain to heel.

Nightingale glanced at me when I didn't continue. "Well? It doesn't hurt to speculate."

"Ghosts," I said. "Maybe a haunting. A vampire lover?" Simone and her sisters came floating up through my memory.

"Perhaps," Nightingale said. "What else?"

I mentally flipped through the pages of Polidori. "Visitation from some sort of higher fae? Succubus?" We were going to be in for some interesting scenes if that was the case.

"They're all possibilities," Nightingale agreed approvingly, "assuming the problem is truly supernatural."

Devin lived at the end of a long, isolated driveway that was little better than a dirt path. The Jag's suspension definitely did not enjoy the large rocks poking up from the road that no one had bothered to dig up. I saw Nightingale visibly flinch as the front driver's side tire hit a stone the size of Toby. "We may end up having to walk back to London at this rate," he muttered.

A small, pointy, Tudor-style cottage nestled amongst overgrown shrubbery greeted us at the end of our very bumpy journey. A black Mercedes A-Class was already parked out front. Nightingale pulled up alongside it, got out of the car and crouched down to inspect the Jag's wheels. "She seems to have survived intact," he announced with some relief.

The front door swung open to reveal Seawoll's enormous, unmistakeable figure. "There you are," he bellowed when he saw me. "It's about bloody time."

Nightingale straightened up at the sound of Seawoll's voice. "Ah, Alexander. I apologize for our delay." 

"Never mind that," Seawoll grumbled, waving at us. "You're here now. Come in. Devin's getting tea."

We followed Seawoll through the doorway, which was short enough that Seawoll had to duck to avoid bumping his head. I wondered whether his nephew had selected a house with a low entrance on purpose. I walked in behind Nightingale, and the part of me that thought pride was overrated admired the way his broad shoulders tapered in a strong line to his narrow waist and hips, all beautifully accentuated by his expertly tailored shirt. I recalled the play of his back muscles under my hands as he'd leaned up against me, and I leashed in that thought before it had a chance to wander in a friskier direction. I could almost hear Lesley tell me to get over it and focus.

Forcing my eyes away, I studied our surroundings instead. The entry opened up into a cozy, low-ceilinged living room that was decorated entirely in mismatched space-age 1960s furniture. Seawoll had mentioned his nephew was interested in social commentary, so I was ninety percent sure that what I was seeing was a strong commitment to irony. The other ten percent of me had been blinded in the initial assault of kitsch and didn't really care one way or the other. More importantly, I wasn't sensing any blasts of _vestigia_ , suggesting that if there was magic happening, it wasn't strong enough to soak the entire house.

We all perched ourselves on chairs that had clearly been designed as a defiant challenge to anyone who dared sit upon them. I was still squirming in mine when Devin entered the room carrying a full tray. I could see straight away why Seawoll might be concerned about his nephew's health. I pegged him as being around my age, and while I guessed that he wasn't a particularly robust, rugby-playing type on a good day, he had the wan, listless look of a person who had recently been very ill. His clothes hung loosely on his thin frame, and it didn't appear to be a stylistic choice. He dropped the tray - and I do mean dropped - on a low-legged table with a loud clatter. A little jet of hot tea escaped the spout of the kettle and dribbled down the round belly.

"Well, uncle, you and your friends have seen me. Are we done?"

I suddenly imagined Seawoll and Nightingale holding hands, skipping across a meadow with a song of loving friendship in their hearts and nearly laughed. I bit it back and it was a good thing too, as an alarming shade of red began to creep up Seawoll's neck and into his face. Any copper who saw that scarlet flush knew to run fast and run far, since it heralded imminent carnage and detached, rolling heads. But rather than bursting out in rage as I expected, he merely said with an impressive amount of restraint, "No, we are not. Sit down, lad."

Devin sat, lounging insolently in one of the space chairs with the ease of someone who has already spent the requisite time and effort in figuring out the most comfortable position, and is feeling smug about the discomfort of those who have not. He glanced at me, then at Nightingale. His eyes narrowed ever so l slightly and I thought I heard a faint little hiss, the same as Molly might make when displeased. Nightingale's face remained politely impassive, so I couldn't tell whether he'd picked up on it as well.

"Devin, this is DCI Thomas Nightingale, and that is Constable Peter Grant. Their job is to deal with, ah..." Seawoll paused as he cast about for a suitable word that wouldn't choke him on its way out of his mouth. 

"The uncanny," Nightingale supplied.

"The fucking uncanny," Seawoll echoed. 

"Like the X-Files?" Devin asked, eyebrow raised mockingly. "Which one of you is Mulder and which is Scully?"

Nightingale seemed mildly perplexed so I knew he had no idea what Devin was talking about. I, on the other hand, was pretty sure that I was the Scully of our working partnership but wasn't about to say so out loud. Not that I don't find Scully delightful, but I was already dealing with one identity crisis and wasn't eager to add another on top. Instead, I said, "We don't do aliens."

"That's a shame," Devin sighed. "I suppose you won't be able to help me after all. Feel free to have some tea before you see yourselves out." He made to stand but Seawoll had apparently reached his limit of cheek. I imagined that limit was quite low.

"Sit your arse back down, boy," he demanded. "We did not waste our fucking time driving out here so we could be treated to your particular brand of bullshit. So stop your dithering and tell them what's bothering you."

I recognized the rebellious look that crossed Devin's face - it was the look of a boy that had never been disciplined by an African mother for back talk and other acts of sheer, willful stupidity. For a moment I thought he might throw a full-on tantrum, but to his credit and my surprise, Devin swallowed down whatever rude words had been on his tongue and instead made an attempt at civility. "Sorry," he grumbled. "I get rather stroppy when I'm tired."

"That's quite alright," Nightingale said briskly. "Alexander has told us a bit about what might be happening, but we'd like to hear it from you."

Devin shrugged, plucking at the edge of a frayed hole in the knee of his jeans. To me it looked like a hole that had been come by honestly from actual wear, rather than one that had been artfully placed for maximum faux-hipster effect by the clothing manufacturer. "I've been having, um, strange dreams at night. I wake up the next morning more tired than I was when I went to bed. I've tried meditating, drinking, pills - nothing helps."

"For how long?" I asked.

"Months now. Not every night, but enough."

"I see," said Nightingale, frowning. "And you've been sleeping alone?"

Devin's pale, thin face flushed pink and his eyes darted towards Seawoll. "Physically, yes."

Nightingale hummed thoughtfully, and I had a feeling I knew where things were going. "Could you describe the nature of your dreams for us?"

Devin became even pinker. "They're, ah... Well, they're very...risqué." Clearly, he was not thrilled with the idea of talking about sex in front of his uncle. Or maybe he was reluctant to talk about it in front of strangers. Or maybe he just fell on the very prudish end of the English spectrum and never talked about sex at all.

Nightingale blithely pressed on as if this was a normal conversation to have over tea. "Do they feature anyone in particular?"

"Yes," Devin said. "A woman. The same bird every time, but I swear I've never seen or met anyone like her in my waking life."

"And she is your partner in these risqué dream activities?" God, the word 'risqué' sounded unfairly sexy rolling off Nightingale's tongue. I kept my eyes locked on Devin.

"Yes. And I'll admit that she's quite fantastic. Very experienced. I'd have no complains, if not for..." Devin trailed off and gestured at himself and his sickly state.

"And you're certain that you're dreaming when all of this occurs?"

"Yes. Maybe?" Devin suddenly looked uncertain. "I'm fairly sure I am."

Nightingale caught my eye and I quickly looked away. A popular bit of pseudoscience suggested that men think about sex every seven seconds, which might have been an exaggeration for some but felt about right to me, especially during the past two weeks. Considering that I was already struggling to keep my thoughts about Nightingale down to a manageable level, pity fuck or no, a sex demon was just about the last thing I wanted to deal with.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Swanley is coincidentally where my Peter-model hails from... thanks for reading! :D


	3. Chapter 3

Apparently succubi came in two major flavors - the corporeal and non-corporeal. Methods for dealing with each form were relatively similar according to Nightingale, but he thought it would help to know for certain which type was sucking the life right out of Seawoll's nephew. And thanks to the wonders of modern technology, we could simply set up a camera in Devin's bedroom rather than camping out on the floor overnight. Nightingale had assured me that yes, we would be able to see the succubus on camera if it was corporeal, and no, the myth that creatures such as vampires and demons couldn't be captured on film or seen in mirrors was untrue. He'd patiently explained this while giving me the look he reserves for those times when he thinks I'm being particularly baffling but is too polite to say so out loud. 

The _vestigia_ in Devin's bedroom more than made up for what the rest of the house lacked. Hot, greedy lust, a curl of languid pleasure and a brush of ice that was so cold it burned all enveloped me when I opened the door. "Oh God," I quietly groaned and nearly stumbled. At least, I think I was quiet. Nightingale caught my arm and rescued me from falling on my face. 

"Are you quite alright?" he murmured into my ear. I heard a hint of amusement in his voice, but when I looked up at him, his expression was perfectly bland. Seeing as how I was already half hard, Nightingale's lack of reaction to the _vestigia_ equivalent of "Je T'aime...Moi Non Plus" seemed unfair. Or at least, I'd thought he was unaffected until I saw that his pupils were completely blown out.

"I'm fine," I muttered. "I'd say we're right on track in thinking this is a succubus." 

"Indeed," Nightingale said. "The strength of the _vestigia_ suggests that this one has been here for a while, which fits with what Devin has told us."

We also had a good look around the rest of his home, looking for signs that he might be an illicit practitioner after all, but Nightingale's hunch had been correct and it appeared that Devin was not magically inclined, aside from his ability to attract demonic creatures to his bed. That, or he hid it very well. After we were done, Devin had quietly asked that we not let Seawoll see the recording. I promised, since I wouldn't want my dad or any of my uncles watching me get my jollies on with a supernatural entity either.

"You understand that my governor and I will have to see it," I'd pointed out, just in case he was especially dense.

Devin had shrugged. "Unlike my uncle, I'll never have to see you two again after this is over. And I quite frankly don't care what you think so it's all the same to me."

And with that rather practical bit of philosophy in my back pocket, we made ready to leave. Nightingale wanted to go back to the Folly to do some research since it had been decades since he'd last dealt with a succubus. "And perhaps we'll take your car when we return tomorrow," he suggested as we jostled our way back down the dirt path of doom. Nightingale practically sagged with relief when the Jag finally hit a proper, smooth road. He was quiet on the way back, no doubt preoccupied with Devin's misfortune. Despite Nightingale's 'shabby gentility', as Lady Ty had called it - the bar for shabbiness must have been set much higher for a goddess, as the suits and car and accent seemed posh enough to me - he was a copper through and through, and not even Seawoll could deny that. There was a magical creature disturbing the Queen's Peace and that's all my governor needed to know.

Once we were settled back at the Folly - I saw Nightingale give the Jag an apologetic pat as we left the garage - Nightingale disappeared into the magical library and I bunkered down in the general one. I closed the door of the library behind me and sucked in a deep breath of relief. Spending hours swimming back and forth between islands of lust, embarrassment and confusion had left me mentally exhausted, and I was pretty certain that if I'd spent anymore time in close proximity to Nightingale, I would let slip some unwelcome thing that I wouldn't be able to take back. I flipped through the musty card catalogue that probably still had entries from the 18th century tucked away in its depths, and toyed with the idea of roping Molly into helping me file all the cards electronically. It would have been nice to have a database of the Folly's mundane books that we could easily browse without the imminent threat of losing a finger to a thousand paper cuts. A few indices caught my eye and I pulled the texts from the stacks, settling down and firmly turning my attention to the succubi at hand.

Nearly every culture on the planet had folk tales that involved a mythical seductress capable of sucking the life out of a man through his knob. Sometimes it was a normal woman, sometimes it was a woman with duck feet, sometimes it was just a ghostly figure that hopped into a man's dreams for a little shag and asphyxiation. Science postulated that succubi had been a way to explain night paralysis - with a little slap and tickle thrown in because why not - and most of the time, that's likely what it was. Unfortunately, it didn't seem Seawoll's nephew was quite so lucky. While many of the texts I was perusing gleefully described encounters with succubi and the effects of these encounters on their victims, very few seemed interested in explaining how to fix the problem.

After a few hours, the sound of a throat clearing made me jump stiffly in my chair, and I looked up to find Nightingale leaning against the doorframe. "We have a problem," he said to me, a look of brisk concern in his eyes. "I've heard from the inspector, and it seems that his nephew has taken a turn for the worse. I'm afraid that we'll need to deal with this matter tonight."

"Shit," I said. "What happened?" 

"He fell asleep and stopped breathing. It's quite fortunate that Alexander was there to administer aid and transport him to the hospital. He's there now, and he has requested that we meet him there as soon as possible." 

"Should he have gone downhill so fast?" Devin hadn't been a picture of health, but he hadn't looked like he had one foot in the grave, either.

Nightingale shrugged. "These sorts of matters can be unpredictable. It's possible the demon has gotten wind of our involvement and accelerated its activity." 

We stopped by one of the storage rooms in the bowels of the Folly to pick up some items that Nightingale said we would need. "Themistius describes the ritual in great detail," he said as he picked out bundles of incense. "I'd forgotten how...enthusiastic he is about the subject." He also hefted a few crystals and must have deemed them worthy, because they went into the little canvas bag on his arm, as did a little silver knife with matching bowl and a bag of coarse salt. According to Themistius, banishing succubi apparently required Professor Trelawney's New Age collection of magical doodads. "These items are not inherently magical," Nightingale corrected me. Every moment was a teaching moment for my governor. "We will use them to facilitate the ritual we need to perform." 

After Nightingale grabbed his silver-topped cane, we hopped into the car - the Asbo, this time, not the Jag - and floored it out of London. There wasn't much traffic on the road at this time at night, which was good since Nightingale was intent on making it to Swanley in record time and encouraged me to hit speeds that the Asbo rarely achieved while circulating in London. He explained the framework for what would happen as we flew down the carriageway.

"Despite the numerous myths that have sprung up around succubi and succubus-like creatures," Nightingale said, "they are very rare. And because they entangle themselves in a victim's life energy, banishing them without accidentally killing the victim can be quite tricky."

"Where are they banished to?"

Nightingale shrugged, as I half-expected him to. "No one knows for certain. And before you ask, it's not entirely clear where they come from, either."

My governor was becoming wise in the ways of Peter Grant. "Are we doing an exorcism, then? Should we have brought a Bible with us? Or a priest?"

"Hardly. Religious commands have very little impact on them. There are two general steps that are required to deal with the succubus regardless of whether it is corporeal or not. The first is to lure the demon away from its original victim, and the second is to execute the spell that actually gets rid of it." 

"Okay," I said. "That sounds easy enough?"

"It might," Nightingale said, "but it's not. In order to banish the succubus successfully, the practitioner must be able to distract the succubus without becoming ensnared in its wiles, which is not a trivial matter."

I could see where this was heading. "Let me guess. If you get caught, you die when the ritual is completed."

"Very good, Peter. That's exactly what happens," Nightingale said approvingly.

"Just brilliant," I muttered. "So how does one get the attention of a succubus, and keep from being sucked in by it?"

"Capturing the attention of a succubus is simply a matter of presenting it with another potential victim. Focus is all that's required to keep from becoming enraptured."

He said that it wouldn't be easy, and yet continued to describe the entire affair like we were going to be making beans on toast. "Alright," I said skeptically. "And the spell to deport it back to the mothership?"

"It's a complex, fairly dangerous piece of magic," was all he said. "That will be my responsibility."

"Wait a minute. Does that mean I have to be the succubus bait?"

"Yes."

"Do I get a choice in this matter?" 

"No," Nightingale said. "Not unless you can think of someone else to act as the lure."

I imagined Seawoll lounging across a bed, giving the succubus a come hither look. If I was the demon, I'd likely run screaming straight back into the comforting arms of my original victim, which was out of the question. "Well shit," I said. "I didn't realize 'demon bait' was part of my job description."

Nightingale gave me a sympathetic look. "If it makes you feel better, this will hopefully be the first and last time you'll have to perform such a role," he said. "For a succubus, anyway."

Seawoll had taken Devin to Queen Mary's Hospital in Sidcup for treatment and evaluation and so that's where we headed. When we arrived, I took advantage of the fact that I was traveling with a DCI to meet another DCI and parked the Asbo in a loading-only zone right by the hospital entrance to A&E. We found Seawoll in the waiting room, slumped over in a hard plastic chair. He looked exhausted, harried and absolutely livid. It was as vulnerable and terrifying as I'd ever seen him.

Seawoll looked up as Nightingale sat down next to him. "How is he?" 

"He's in hospital; how do you fucking think he is?" Seawoll snapped.

Nightingale merely nodded as if Seawoll had politely answered his question. "Is he awake?"

Seawoll sighed deeply. "He is." He snorted derisively. "Bloody genius doctors think he has some sort of sleeping disorder."

"They're not entirely incorrect," Nightingale mused, "although I imagine they've misdiagnosed the cause."

Seawoll sighed again and leaned forward in his seat, clasping his hands as if in prayer. He stared down at the floor and said, "Tell me that you can help him, Thomas."

"I believe we can," Nightingale reassured. He could give no other answer. "Will he be released soon?"

Seawoll shook his head. "They want to keep him overnight for observation."

Nightingale also bent over and leaned in close to Seawoll. I had to strain to hear what he said. "Perhaps he should be brought home, Alexander. It's best that we complete this ritual tonight."

The large inspector looked at my governor like he'd gone stark raving mad. It was an honest improvement on how Seawoll usually looked at him. "It's not as if he broke his bloody toe, Thomas. He stopped breathing. If the doctors say that he should stay overnight, then he will fucking stay overnight."

"We already know the cause of his affliction," Nightingale argued softly. "I believe the bond between your nephew and the succubus may have grown strong enough for it to continue drawing on him even when he's not at home. Being in hospital won't help."

Seawoll glanced around the waiting room to see if anyone else had heard Nightingale say the word 'succubus'. The only other people in the area were myself, a drunken young man with a bloody rag held to his head, and a woman holding a sniffling child. Of those four, I was the only one was paying any attention to the conversation, and luckily for Seawoll, I already knew about the succubus. "It'll keep him from dying, won't it," Seawoll countered very vehemently and very quietly.

Nightingale shook his head. "He will only grow worse as time goes on, and his health is already quite precarious. This is the only permanent solution to his problem. I suppose we could try to do the ritual here, but I'm not certain it would work so far from the original site of attachment."

Seawoll's face turned red at the very idea. "You will fucking not," he thundered. He was loud enough that he frightened the sick kid, who began to wail. The mother gave us a nasty glare. "Damn it, Thomas."

"You asked for our help, Alexander, and you were right to do so," Nightingale said. "So let us help."

Seawoll sat quietly for a long while, Nightingale patiently waited. Then Seawoll pushed himself to his feet and begrudgingly said, "Alright."

Nightingale also stood, only to have Seawoll clutch him tightly by the shoulders and yank him in close. "We'll do this your way, Thomas, but by God if you fail I'll bury you so deep they'll be digging you out in Tibet. You've let me down once; you'll not fucking do so again. Not with Devin."

My governor wasn't a small man, but Seawoll towered over him with his massive height and bulk. They stared at each other, and if Nightingale was aware that he was playing David to Seawoll's Goliath, he didn't seem terribly bothered by it. If anything, he looked calm and relaxed, as if an angry Mancunian volcano wasn't looming over him, ready to spew. I suppose when you've squared off against a Tiger tank or two and come out the other end smelling rosy, your bog-standard human bully probably doesn't even register.

"I understand your concern, inspector," Nightingale said coolly. "I'll do everything I can." I suddenly remembered what he'd said earlier, about how the Folly's rules and his own beliefs separated him from the Faceless Man. I wondered if Seawoll would ever push Nightingale hard enough to find out how thin that barrier was.

Seawoll released Nightingale with a grunt and pushed him away, and Nightingale allowed himself to fall back a few steps. "I'll need to talk to Devin first. We only do this if he agrees to it," Seawoll said. "Wait here."

The inspector charged through a set of double doors marked 'Authorized Personnel Only', ignoring a squawk of indignation from the nurse manning the triage desk. I came and stood by Nightingale, who appeared entirely unruffled. "This is going to work, right?"

"For Devin's sake and ours, I hope so. I've done this successfully once before, and I don't see why we wouldn't be able to replicate that success."

One of the things a superior officer is supposed to do in difficult situations is to remain composed and to project an air of confidence in order to set an example for all the brainless minions that are likely running about like headless chickens. The Met called it leadership; most junior officers called it bullshit. Regardless, Nightingale was doing a fine job of it, so I refrained from reminding him that the last time he'd tried this was in the previous millenium.

Seawoll came back a few minutes later, trailed by a couple of wilting and thoroughly intimidated security officers. "Devin is willing to try," he said, sounding as though he was questioning his nephew's sanity. He tossed a key to Nightingale, who caught it with one hand. "That's to his place. If you need to set up for your...procedure, go on ahead. The faster we get this done with, the better." 

Nightingale nodded and then beckoned to me. We left the hospital and hopped back into the Asbo, which unsurprisingly had a ticket on the windscreen. I tossed it into the back and promptly forgot about it. When we arrived at Devin's home, I pulled out the sack of items we'd brought and carried it inside. The _vestigia_ that soaked into Devin's bedroom seemed slightly less overwhelming, if only because I was ready for it this time. The camera that we had put in place was still sitting on the dresser, and when we played back the video, we saw no evidence of a demon, female or otherwise, in the room. 

"A non-corporeal succubus, then," Nightingale murmured. "Good. They're slightly less dangerous."

I set our bag down and Nightingale took the objects out, explaining the role that each piece would play.

"In order to distract the succubus from Devin, you'll need to fall asleep and enter into a dream state that is linked to his," he said. He held up the two bundles of incense. "These contain Artemisa vulgaris and Entada rheedii seeds, along with some herbs that have sedative effects. They'll help you achieve a state of lucid dreaming so that you're less likely to be seduced by the succubus. The crystals will help establish a connection between you two."

"Seriously?" I asked skeptically. I picked up the chunk of large crystal quartz and held it up. It wasn't a particularly pretty piece of stone, with cracks and discolorations running through it. 

"Quite," Nightingale said. "I believe that they're frequently used by practitioners in other cultures. It shouldn't be surprising that these elements would have been borrowed and incorporated into British magic at some point."

'Borrowed and incorporated' was a nice, sanitized way of putting it, considering the British Empire's eagerness to invade and colonize every corner of the planet in its attempt to bring English order to uncivilized brutes everywhere. "So once I'm in, what do I do to get its attention?"

"Be alluring," Nightingale said. He glanced at me, his eyes unreadable. "I'm sure you'll manage just fine."

And what the hell was that supposed to mean? I was no stranger to Nightingale's penchant for a cryptic comment here and there, but that particular one seemed ripe for misinterpretation. "Alluring, got it."

"Once you've drawn the succubus away from Devin, I will draw a circle of salt around you to contain it and prevent it from escaping until the rest of the spell is done."

"How will you know that I have it?" Nightingale silently gestured to the last of the things we'd brought and my stomach gave a little lurch. "I'm guessing those aren't for decoration."

"No," Nightingale said. "There's quite a bit of power in blood, as you already well know. It'll allow me to monitor you while staying awake, and it's required for ultimately banishing the demon. Its craving for life brings it into our world, and so life is required to send it back out."

"I thought we needed Molly for that," I said. I remembered the feel of her sharp teeth tearing through my skin as she bit down on my throat and the pain that ripped through me right before I fell back in time. I shuddered; haemomancy à la Molly was on my top ten list of things I never wanted to do again.

"Molly can certainly facilitate certain types of magic and make them easier for us to perform, but her services are not absolutely required," Nightingale explained. "We'll be able to make do without her."

I eyed the knife and bowl skeptically. When we'd packed it up, the silver bowl had seemed small and innocuous, but now, imagining it full of Nightingale's blood, it seemed dangerously large. "How much blood do you need?"

Nightingale shrugged. "It depends on how long the ritual takes to complete. Obviously, I would prefer for it to go quickly."

There was no disagreement from me. Nightingale set the incense in a cup that he grabbed off the nightstand and opened up the bag of salt with the knife. The burlap material parted easily for the small blade, and I tried not to imagine Nightingale's flesh doing the same. Downstairs, we heard the door open and Seawoll's bluster filled the small cottage as he and Devin returned from the hospital.

"Will you just wait one bloody moment, I swear you're more stubborn than your mother was," Seawoll roared. "If you fall going up those stairs I'll be damned if I'm the one to catch you."

"Well, at the rate I'm going I'll be dead soon enough, so what's a few days difference?" came the reedy response.

There was some muffled thumping and a gasp of indignation and before long, Seawoll and Devin appeared in the doorway of the bedroom. Seawoll's nephew looked considerably worse than he had earlier in the day, and he looked mightily vexed by the fact that Seawoll was practically carrying him. "What is all this nonsense?" he asked irritably, staring at the objects laid on his floor. Apparently Seawoll's disdain for magic and its accessories was a genetic trait, and his nephew seemed to have inherited it.

"This nonsense will help us solve your succubus problem," I explained with some bite, as Nightingale was still busy arranging things to his liking. Knowing the risks of the ritual and what it might cost my governor, it's possible I was somewhat annoyed. Nightingale's eyebrow lifted when he glanced at me, however, so I smoothed out my tone with some effort. "Ignore it if you'd like. All you have to do is breathe in some incense and fall asleep."

Devin's eyes widened in terror. "I don't want to fall asleep. She'll kill me if I do." He turned to his uncle. "Don't make me sleep."

Seawoll looked slightly helpless in the face of his nephew's desperation. "Is that really necessary?" he asked.

"I'm afraid so," Nightingale replied. He stood and faced both Seawoll and Devin, his spine straight and shoulders back. He looked every inch the capable, fearless soldier, and I imagined this was the man that the Axis wizards had been so wary of. "We will keep you safe," he assured Devin with such confidence that I believed him. I could tell by the way Devin's body relaxed that he bought it as well. "We're here to help you, and that's what we're going to do."

Devin glanced at Seawoll once more, and the large inspector gave him an encouraging nod. His willingness to place his nephew in our hands was a strong indicator of how worried he must have been. "Fine," Devin said reluctantly. He shuffled over and collapsed down onto his bed with a groan. "I'm utterly knackered."

Nightingale lit the sticks of incense with a tiny, fire-hot _lux_ and Devin's eyes widened. "Oh," he breathed. "How did you do that?"

My governor smiled. "Magic," he said. "Are you ready?"

Devin nodded, his doubts further eased by Nightingale's minor show of skill. Nightingale lowered burning sticks towards Devin and allowed the fragrant smoke to drift over him. "Breathe deeply," he ordered. "And then relax."

Seawoll's nephew did as instructed, and before long, his eyelids slipped shut and his breathing settled into a slow, steady rhythm. Nightingale then waved me over and told me to do the same. As he held up the incense, he glanced at Seawoll. "Alexander, you may stay in the room if you wish, but I must insist that you stay silent and refrain from interfering for any reason." Seawoll looked as if he might protest loudly and profanely, but Nightingale cut him off with an abrupt gesture. "If you can't do as I ask, then you will leave. I can't afford any distractions." 

The inspector's brow furrowed in indignant rage at the idea that he'd been downgraded to a mere distraction, but he relented. "You're off your fucking trolley if you think I'm leaving Devin alone."

Nightingale turned his attention back to me. "Peter? Is the smoke taking hold?"

I wasn't sure what sort of effect the incense was supposed to have, but the floor seemed to be dematerializing under my feet. I felt weirdly light and buoyant, as if Earth's mass had gone on holiday and had left its citizens to the tender mercies of zero gravity. "I'm floating," I said. "Am I floating?" 

"Not quite," Nightingale said. He led me over to a spot he'd cleared on the floor and helped me lay down. It was a good thing too, because if I'd been left to my own devices I likely would have just flopped forward onto my face and called it a day. "Relax, Peter. Breathe deeply." I pried open my eyelids and found my governor hovering just above me. My God, but he was incredible. I must have grinned up at him, because he gave me a little smile in return. "Remember, once the demon is away from Devin, make sure you resist its seduction. I won't be able to complete the ritual if you're caught."

There was something important about what Nightingale was saying, but I couldn't remember what it was. I nodded anyway and said, "Okay." It seemed to satisfy him. 

I was flying high now, soaring weightless and free, rising up through the atmosphere so fast that it was giving me a bad case of vertigo. I closed my eyes again, suddenly exhausted by my airborne exploits. Who knew flying could be so tiring? I suppose that explained why birds were so light, with their hollow bones and compact bodies. As I began to drift off to sleep, I thought I heard Seawoll exclaim, "What the _fuck_ are you doing, Thomas?" but by the time my brain caught up to it, I was already gone.


	4. Chapter 4

When I opened my eyes, I found myself in Devin's bedroom, laying flat on my back and staring up at the eggshell-colored ceiling. Nightingale and Seawoll were both nowhere to be found, and the room was bare of any furniture except the bed, which seemed very far away. I lifted my arms straight into the air and stared at my hands. The palms were square and the fingers were long and tipped by blunt, somewhat ragged nails. There was a small, shiny burn scar on the right one from the first time I'd successfully cast a werelight. They seemed solid enough, and they certainly looked like my own hands. 

"I'm dreaming," I said out loud to myself. "I've got to be dreaming right now."

"Good for you. Now belt up, will you? You're killing the mood." Devin's petulant voice came at me from the direction of the bed.

"Shit," I muttered. I clambered to my feet and took a few steps. My legs also seemed solid enough. "Oi!" I hollered as I started to run. "Step away from the human!"

When I stood up from where I lay, the bed had looked like it was maybe twenty meters away. I ran, and then I ran some more, and despite the fact that I was pumping my arms and legs like I was chasing the Pale Lady all over again, I never seemed to get any closer to it. Mocking laughter echoed around me as I slowed down to a stop and bent over at the waist, chest heaving as I took a little breather. I sincerely hoped that Nightingale wasn't watching me at the moment, because I was pretty certain he'd probably insist on more boxing to get my fitness levels up. I paused, imagined a sweaty, breathless Nightingale dancing before the heavy bag, and then changed my mind and hoped he was watching after all.

Once I felt like I wouldn't pass out from hypoxia, I started towards the bed again, but this time at a brisk walk. From where I was I could make out two figures on the bed, and based on creaking noises and loud moans that reached my ears, I came to the rather obvious conclusion that despite Devin's reluctance to face the succubus again, he and the demon were having a vigorous, life-sucking hump. Considering Devin had dipped some toes into his own grave, I was honestly impressed by how energetic he was.

Although I'd been walking for what felt like a another good five minutes, I was still as far away from the bed as I had been when I'd woken up. Clearly, if I wasn't going to be able to reach the succubus, I had to make the succubus come to me. I spent a few wasted moments trying to make that fit into a Muhammad and the mountain scenario before forcing myself to focus. _Be alluring_ , Nightingale had suggested. He clearly had confidence that I'd be able to attract the demon and do my part, and I didn't want him to find that confidence misplaced.

I had no idea what a succubus would find appealing, but I suspected that it wasn't anything physical or even sexual. Sex was frequently associated with a release of energy - amongst other things - and engaging in it was essentially an act of life and creation. Nightingale had said that a succubus came into our world seeking life. It seemed reasonable that the succubus simply used the act of sex, whether dream or real, to get the life energy it craved. The fact that its victims enjoyed being repeatedly banged likely made it easier for the succubus to maintain a steady food source.

Walid and I had a running hypothesis that magical energy and life energy were essentially the same thing, or at least closely related enough that one could be substituted for the other. That meant that I had one important, relevant thing Devin did not, and it wasn't my strikingly good looks. I had access to magic, and perhaps enticing the succubus was simply a matter of letting it know that it could eat a much larger, juicier meal if it fed off of me instead of Devin.

"Oi!" I called out again. "I hear magic is pretty tasty. Why don't you come over here and have a little nibble?" As far as pick-up lines went, it wasn't my best. Sadly, it wasn't my worst, either.

There was a moment of silence and then a shout of frustration from Devin. I peered at the bed and where before there were two figures, now there was only one. _That was easy_ , I thought. _Come on then, old girl. Come and get me_. 

And suddenly, the demon was in front of me. I had been expecting an unknown woman, but instead I found Beverley Brook standing before me. "Wait, what?!" It was an unexpected but not entirely unpleasant surprise.

I was also no longer standing in Devin's bare room, but rather in my own bedroom back at the Folly. Beverley leaned in towards me, her tilted cat's eyes gleaming mischievously. She'd poured herself into her neoprene wetsuit, which clung to her figure very, very nicely. Her dreads brushed against my cheek as she reached up to whisper in my ear.

"Are you offering yourself to me, baby wizard?" Beverley asked, sounding pleased. "That's a proper gift."

"Giving people as gifts isn't really that popular anymore. It's the sort of thing that's frowned upon now," I said distractedly. Now, don't get me wrong. Beverley was fit. I knew it, she knew it, and more importantly, her mother and sisters probably knew that I knew it. Frisky dreams aside, the idea of becoming intimately involved with an actual deity was a bit...overwhelming. Especially when I ran the risk of drowning in one of London's many rivers should I be dumb enough to ever upset her. That knowledge was enough to kill whatever real interest I might have had.

A look of disappointment crossed Beverley's face even as she began to slowly unzip the wetsuit, revealing the tops of her breasts. I turned my eyes away, but I could hear the _snick snick snick_ of the zipper as it slowly continued its journey downwards. I had no problems visualizing exactly what I might have seen if I'd been watching Beverley instead of the low bookshelf that stood against the east wall of my bedroom. "You're saying that you don't want to give yourself to me? Just imagine what fun we could have."

"I'd rather not," I choked out. I breathed in deeply, closed my eyes and thought of Lady Ty and the look on her face when I cracked her fountain. That did the trick.

When I opened my eyes again, it wasn't Beverley standing before me, but rather Lesley May. Lesley as she had been, before Mr. Punch and Henry Pyke had _dissimulo_ -ed her face into a bloody train wreck. I had to bite my lip from gasping out loud - I'd almost forgotten what she'd looked like, pre-possession. I'd almost forgotten how attractive she was. Had been. She was wearing a tiny pair of pyjama shorts and a thin t-shirt that hid very little of the lithe body underneath. Her blonde hair was loose around her shoulders, which was a rare thing - normally it was pulled back into a business-like ponytail.

"Peter," Lesley said. She reached for the waistband of my pants and reeled me in while her fingers toyed with the button. "You've been waiting for this, haven't you? You've been patient."

"Oh, come on now," I groaned. I'd carried a torch for Lesley for years, ever since we'd met at Hendon. She'd made it explicitly clear that we'd never be more than mates, since we were to be colleagues and therefore, in her mind, off-limits for anything more. Lesley had been so focused on her career, and for good reason. She'd been an excellent copper...and I had no doubts she'd likely make an excellent villain. Lesley was frighteningly good at everything she set her mind to.

"I know things ended badly the last time I saw you, but I can make it up to you," Lesley murmured. She stepped in against me, and I could smell the shampoo that she always used. It was intoxicating. "We'd be good together, Peter. You know we would."

She smiled at me then, and for some reason, all I could see was crimson soaking through the bandages I'd wrapped around her head right before Henry Pyke left her body behind. I couldn't shake the image of what her face looked like under the plastic mask she wore. I'm ashamed to say that the intense interest I'd had wilted away after I'd realized how severe her injuries were. You could call me a shallow bastard and I wouldn't argue with you.

"No," I said. "This isn't going to work. I already know what you are, so I'm not going to be falling for your bullshit."

A frown crossed Lesley's face. "We both know how easy you are to sidetrack. You just need the right distraction." The succubus' shape shifted once more, and I lurched back with a swear. "I'm always telling you to focus, Peter." Nightingale's smooth voice filled my ear. "Although, you seemed to have no problems focusing on me that night."

He was in his navy two-piece with the near imperceptible pinstripes running through the light wool fabric. He had on a pristine white shirt underneath with a wine-colored silk tie knotted at his throat and rich brown leather loafers on his feet. The suit was one of his newer ones, cut in a close, modern style that was molded lovingly to his lean frame. If I was Nightingale's tailor, I think I'd have jumped for joy every time he stepped foot into my shop. His hair was neatly parted to the side as it always was, and his face was serious as he tilted his head just so. He looked exactly as he had a couple weeks ago, before I'd stripped him of all his fine clothing and got to find out what he was hiding underneath all those layers. Suffice it to say, I was not disappointed. 

"That's just not fair," I muttered. Lesley and Beverley were fantasies that had kept me warm at night when I didn't have an actual partner in my bed. But Nightingale... I had no need to use my imagination, because I already knew what the real thing was like. I already knew how good it could be.

I stumbled back further and Nightingale - succubus-Nightingale - followed me, staying close as he slowly unbuttoned his jacket and loosened his tie. His gaze drilled into me and pinned me in place as he reached up and traced a finger along my jaw. "You're beautiful," he murmured. "I've wanted you for such a long time, ever since I first lay eyes on you. You were worth waiting for, Peter."

Nightingale had said exactly none of these things to me when we'd slept together because he wasn't an eccentric, lonely aristrocrat from one of those bodice-ripping romance novels that my aunties seemed to like so much. I didn't know where the succubus was pulling those lines from, but I'll admit that I didn't half mind hearing them. Or perhaps I should have minded, since I was supposed to be resisting, not melting straight into my fake governor's arms like an innocent heroine ready to be ravished.

"Fuck off," I sighed. "This isn't real. You're not real." _He only made a move because he felt sorry for you. What happened before probably wasn't real either_.

"Does it matter?" Nightingale murmured into my neck. He nipped feathery kisses against my throat just as he had that particular evening. His lips were dry and warm.

"It matters. I'm not supposed to be doing this." That's what my mouth said. The rest of my body vehemently disagreed as evidenced by the fact that I was already straining against the confinement of my pants. I vaguely wondered why I was still wearing them.

"Why not?" Nightingale asked. His hand lightly traveled down my chest, my belly and then came to a rest right where it would be most effective at unraveling the rest of my willpower, which was embarrassingly throwing up a white flag and surrendering without much of a fight. I bit back a startled moan as his fingers tightened around me. "This is what you want, isn't it? Even if you didn't know it."

I had no choice but to agree. Faced with the same offering that I'd gotten two weeks ago, I suddenly realized that I did want it. I wanted Nightingale very badly and without reservation. Now the question was whether he wanted me back.

I thought I heard someone repeatedly calling my name, but it was an echo, a distant birdcall in a vast canyon, nothing more. Nightingale - _fake_ Nightingale, damn it - didn't give me much time to consider it anyway, as he leaned in and pressed his lips against my own. Unlike with real Nightingale, there was no teasing intro, no opening credits to ease me into the action. His mouth moved against mine as if he'd been waiting forever for the chance to devour me. The kiss was almost savage in its intensity, and I leaned into it equally as hard, wanting to taste him just as badly. All dire warnings and instructions were thrown completely out the window as I wrapped my arms around my fake governor and yanked him against me. My memories of real Nightingale and the fake one that was intent on snogging me into bliss-induced oblivion began to merge. By _God_ my governor was well-acquainted with a proper kiss.

I began to feel a little bit weak about the knees when - "PETER. STOP THAT RIGHT NOW."

It was like the voice of Morgan Freeman calling down to me from the heavens, if Morgan Freeman was a white English man with a precise RP accent. The scolding blasted through me and suddenly, the good feelings were gone. I staggered backwards like I was emerging from a week-long bender and landed flat on my arse. Nightingale looked down at me in surprise and unconsciously licked his lips. His neat hair was mussed where I'd run my fingers through it and his pale skin was flushed. It was a very good look on him. Despite the fact that I was shaking like a newborn fawn, I couldn't help but admire the view.

"Peter? What's the matter?" A note of wounded confusion made me wince. It was too close to what the real Nightingale had sounded like in a brief moment of vulnerability after we'd broken apart, right when he'd realized that I was not reacting well and working my way up to a very thorough, very prolonged freak out.

"Stop," I gasped. I scuttled back from him like a debauched crab. "I don't want this."

"You would reject me again?" Nightingale reached towards me, a beseeching look on his face, and it left me cold. I'd never seen such an expression on my real governor.

"FOCUS, PETER. RESIST IT."

"Well that's easy for you to say, isn't it?" He wasn't the one faced with a simulacrum of himself, one that was ready and willing to do...just about anything, I'd bet. I took a deep breath and tried to think about Tyburn again, but a vision of my governor kept getting in the way. "How much longer?" I shouted. I had no idea whether real Nightingale could hear me or not.

There was a short pause, and then, "FEW MINUTES. BEHAVE."

"Okay." I took a deep breath. I could rally my wits for a few minutes until real Nightingale got the job done. Whether time moved at the same pace in my dream as it did in the real world was a question I decided not to examine too closely at the moment. 

"Peter, please." Fake Nightingale grabbed onto my hand as I climbed to my feet. "Don't do this to me."

"I'm sorry," I replied. I carefully kept my gaze away from him; I figured I couldn't be seduced by something I couldn't see. It seemed perfectly logical at the time, anyway. 

"No. No, no, no." The grip on my hand grew painfully tight, and I tried unsuccessfully to shake it off. "I won't go." 

"Sorry," I said again. "I'm going to leave now." I forcibly unwrapped his fingers from my own and leapt for the bedroom door, but fake Nightingale jumped on my back and wrapped his arms around my shoulders, dragging me back. 

"You can't," he hissed desperately. His breath blew delicately into my ear and I could feel my body react in spite of my best intentions. "Please, just stay with me. I'm begging you. I'll make you feel so good, I promise."

I didn't bother responding. I was too busy trying to untangle myself from the succubus' embrace. It seemed to dig into me, and not just physically, either. I might have begun to panic just a bit, wondering whether it was possible to become entangled with the demon despite the fact that we hadn't actually had sex. It held onto me tighter and tighter, squeezing my chest so tightly that I couldn't breathe. Not that my dream self really had a need to breathe, but the sensation was still unpleasant. 

The succubus began to wail, then. Its voice crescendoed until into a truly impressive high pitched shriek that nearly burst my eardrum. I could feel my ribs begin to creak under the strength of its desperation and then suddenly, it was gone. Even in my dream, I felt a flash of sunbright energy and cool efficiency that defined Nightingale's _signare_ , and I wondered exactly how much power he'd expended to banish the demon if I could sense it while asleep. There was a faint scent of scorched wood and hot metal that began to fade as soon as it registered. I spun around and found myself completely alone.

"Are we done?" I yelled. I strained to listen, but there was no response.

It certainly seemed as though we were done, but now I was at a complete loss as to what I was supposed to do. Although I wasn't having a near-death experience - at least I hoped I wasn't - traveling back to the Roman days of ye olde Londoninium had felt very similar to this lucid dream. Getting back into my own proper era had generally required a painful little heave-ho, usually with assistance from a _genius loci_ that just happened to be hanging about in ancient civilization. This time, there weren't any helpful deities around to give me a hand.

I opened the door to my bedroom, but couldn't quite comprehend the scene outside. So instead I walked over to my bed and flopped down on my back, laying spread-eagled on the mattress. Despite the fact that I was technically asleep, I suddenly felt completely spent. My eyelids began to droop, and it didn't seem worth spending the energy to keep them up. Without anything better to do, I decided that I deserved to have a little dream-kip and hoped that I'd be truly awake when I next opened my eyes.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: a bit of bloodiness ahead

"Peter?"

The sound of my name guided me as I floated up from the depths of my dream. I breached the surface abuptly, but the sensation wasn't entirely unpleasant.

"Open your eyes, Peter. I know you're awake." I knew that voice, even though it was clipped with worry. I obeyed like a good apprentice and was rewarded with the sight of my governor's face hovering close above me.

"Thank God," he said fervently when he saw my eyes open. The deep crease between his brows eased a bit. "Peter, how do you feel? Are you alright?"

It was an excellent question. First and foremost, I wasn't dead or actively dying, which meant I'd achieved one of my primary objectives. Whenever we took on potentially lethal magical assignments, I still liked to set a low bar for myself, even when I had Nightingale by my side. Other than that, I didn't seem to be in any pain, which was a bonus. A weight was spread on my chest above my heart, and I belatedly realized that it was Nightingale's hand. The press of his palm felt nice, and I probably would have lay there feeling drowsy and satisfied if it weren't for the fact something tacky was smeared on my face and it was beginning to make my skin itch. I reached up and scratched at my cheek.

"I'm good," I said lazily. "Did we win? Is Devin okay?"

Rather than smiling like I expected him to, Nightingale simply nodded and fell away from me. An alarm began to buzz loudly in my brain and frightened away any clinging remnants of my incense-induced stupor. I pushed myself up off the floor. "Boss? Oh, _fuck._ "

Nightingale's left sleeve was neatly pushed up to reveal a forearm that had a deep, disturbing laceration running down its length. Fresh, gleaming red was liberally smeared all over his skin. He held his arm out away from himself, but blood had already soaked into his trousers and spattered on his formerly pristine shirt. It was only now that I noticed that Nightingale's normally pale face was haggard and completely drained of any color. Salt scattered from my path as I scrambled towards him, heart pounding painfully.

"Sir? Shit, shit, shit." I realized with a nauseous little twist in my stomach what the sticky stuff on my face was. "Damn it, how much blood did you use?"

Nightingale collapsed heavily onto his back and held his arm up with his other hand clenched tightly near the elbow in an attempt to stem the flow. Despite that, crimson streaks ran over his white knuckles and stained the rolled cuff. Molly was going to be very, very upset about having to wash it all out. "As much as I needed," he muttered. 

That was Nightingalese for 'I don't have time for your pointless questions when I might be bleeding to death, so if you're not going to be helpful then do be quiet'. He was very concise, my governor. I took his point and I reached for his arm as my first aid training kicked in. I cast about for something to hold against the wound and Seawoll came to our rescue by charging into the room. When he saw I was awake he chucked a clean hand towel and roll of cotton gauze at my head. 

"Fucking hell, Thomas. You look like a damn murder scene."

A ghost of a smile touched Nightingale's lips. "I'll bow to your expertise," he whispered. "I'm quite alright. It's not as bad as it looks."

The inspector came and knelt down next to me as I took the towel and pressed it firmly against my governor's arm. Nightingale inhaled sharply but made no other noise as I squeezed like his life depended on it. Seawoll snorted derisively, but his heart didn't seem to be in it. "I've never bought your bullshit before, Thomas. Don't know why you'd think I'd start now."

As spots of red began to show through the towel, I quickly realized that I couldn't get enough pressure on the wound with his arm hanging in the air so I placed it on the floor and set my weight against it. Nightingale's head rolled towards us. "Devin?" he asked. He looked absolutely dreadful. How the hell had I not noticed straight away? 

"Still sleeping," Seawoll informed him. "You're done, then? Devin's free?"

"Yes."

"Good. Now if you don't mind, I'm calling a fucking ambulance."

Nightingale's head turned towards Seawoll. "That won't be necessary," he said sharply. And by 'sharply', I mean he managed something louder than a whisper.

"Don't be stupid," Seawoll growled. "You need to visit A&E. I'll not have you running around armless and bloodless on my account, Thomas."

"I appreciate the concern," Nightingale said dryly, "but how would you explain this wound? I'd rather avoid the complication." Any physician worth their salt would have suspicions, and I doubted that telling them Nightingale had sliced his vein open to banish a demon would ease those suspicions. The towel had already soaked through, so I unrolled some gauze, added it on top of the towel and pressed harder. Nightingale grimaced and turned his gaze towards me, his eyes hooded with exhaustion. "You may ring Abdul if you'd like, Peter." 

"Already planning on it," I said. 

"Daft sod," Seawoll muttered. "No one's impressed with your stubbornness."

"Not looking to impress," Nightingale returned. 

"You know, Thomas, when I go into an operation, I bloody well expect to have all relevant details on hand," Seawoll ground out. "May I ask why the fuck you didn't think it was necessary to inform me that you'd end up bleeding like a tasty pig being readied for Christmas dinner?"

Nightingale coughed lightly. "Need to know only," he rasped. "Besides, there was nothing to be done about it."

Seawoll sucked in a breath and looked as though he was preparing himself for a tirade, while Nightingale looked like he was struggling to stay conscious. It seemed an unfair contest, so I took my life into my own hands and intervened on my governor's behalf. "Sir, not that I disagree with your sentiments, but perhaps it could wait?"

The inspector's mouth snapped shut and to my complete and utter relief, he merely gave me a considering look and pushed himself to his feet. With a huff of what I assumed was grateful admiration for a job done as promised, he stomped away to check on his nephew once more. 

As I clutched at Nightingale's arm, I took a good look around the room and wondered how it was that my governor was still alive, never mind awake. The bowl that was supposed to catch his blood during the ritual was full, and there were drops and trails of the stuff all over the room. Splashes of dark red were largest near the salt circle that Nightingale had drawn around me while I'd been asleep. A man of Nightingale's size would have approximately five and a half liters of blood, and it seemed to me that a dangerously high proportion of that was decorating Devin's bedroom. Studying the scene, I abruptly understood why Nightingale had spilled so much of his own blood, and why most of it was concentrated around the dashed circle. I swallowed hard against the acidic guilt that crawled up my throat.

"Peter? How are we doing?"

"What?" I whipped my head around and found Nightingale watching me closely. He nodded in the direction of his left arm. "Oh. I think the bleeding is starting to slow." The towel was finally starting to grow cool and gummy under my grip, rather than being warm and liquidy.

"Excellent." He took a deep breath, and then said quietly, "Peter, what I asked of you wasn't easy. You did quite well."

I just shrugged and looked away. I hadn't killed him outright, so I suppose that could be counted as a victory. Nightingale sighed, and then said, louder this time, "We'll be on our way, Alexander."

"Are you certain you don't want to stop at the local hospital?" I asked. Nightingale's arm - along with the rest of him - was going to need more medical care than my rudimentary first aid could offer. When it came to blood and guts and other squishy human parts, I strongly preferred to leave their care and repair to the professionals. I used the rest of the gauze to tightly bandage the wound and hold the sodden, red-stained towel in place. 

"Yes," Nightingale said firmly. "Abdul can see to me at the Folly. It's not that far."

In my opinion it was about forty minutes too far - thirty minutes if I was reckless, which I fully intended to be - but I doubted that arguing with Nightingale would change his mind. I carefully hoisted my very pale boss to his feet with Seawoll's help and watched with concern as his face somehow managed to go even whiter. He exhaled slowly and closed his eyes as he swayed on his feet.

"Do you need to sit back down?" I asked, my voice low. 

"No," Nightingale whispered. "A moment, please."

Once he'd sufficiently gathered himself, he opened his eyes once more and nodded at me. We moved forward slowly out of the bedroom, and when we reached the steep, narrow staircase that led down to the first floor, Nightingale considered it a bit helplessly. I didn't know whether he'd ask for help, but my guess was no, since he'd almost never asked for it after he'd been shot. I didn't feel like watching him tumble down the steps in case he decided not to bother, so I took the decision away from him.

"Where's a lift when you need one?" I asked lightly as I gingerly tucked myself under his bad arm. I settled his left elbow on my shoulder so that the wound would stay above his heart, and then wrapped my arm securely around his waist. I could feel his frame trembling as he wordlessly leaned against me. It was worrisome, to say the least. We descended the stairs one at a time, and let me just note that the narrow staircases of Tudor cottages were not meant to accomodate two full-grown men going side by side.

"This is terribly inconvenient," Nightingale muttered and I didn't know if he meant for me or for him. 

"Almost there," I told him.

The night air had cooled considerably since we'd first arrived, and Nightingale shivered as we made our way towards the Asbo. I hurriedly unlocked the doors and with some tricky maneuvering and a bit of elbow grease, successfully deposited Nightingale in the passenger seat. I turned on the engine and put the heat on full blast. 

I briefly considered gathering our belongings but decided the minutes it would take were too precious to waste. As I ran around to the driver's side, Seawoll intercepted me as he came out of the house. To my surprise, he thrust a travel mug and a blanket into my hands.

"Tea," he said, looking almost embarrassed by the gesture. "For your governor. You make sure he drinks every last fucking drop. And I don't care what the fool says, you park his arse in a hospital or you'll be answering to me, understood?"

I promised I would. "Our things - "

Seawoll cut me off. "I'll have them brought to the Folly tomorrow. Now get the hell out of here." He walked back into the house without another word and slammed the door shut behind him. It was about as warm a farewell as one could expect from him. 

Nightingale was already dozing when I got into the car. He looked unsettlingly like a corpse under the weak moolinght, so I tried chase away the creepy effect by prodding him awake. "Sir? Boss?"

"What is it," came the sleepy reply. "Are we back?" He blinked slowly at me and I watched as he dragged himself to a cogent state. He now looked like an animated corpse, which I suppose was an improvement.

"No, we haven't left yet." I draped the blanket over him, which earned me an exasperated look that would have been more effective if he'd been able to keep his eyes completely open. I took his right hand in mine and put the travel mug in it. I hoped that it would be enough to warm up his chilled fingers. "It's tea. With regards from Inspector Seawoll."

As we pulled away and began to jostle back over the uncivilized driveway, I pulled out my mobile and dialed Walid. 

"Peter?" The Scot sounded far more alert than I would have expected at two in the morning. "What's wrong?"

"It's Nightingale," I said. "I think he's going to need some help." 

"What happened? Are you at the Folly?" Walid didn't sound panicked or anything so dramatic, but his voice took on a tone of brisk competence that I found comforting. It was the same one Nightingale used whenever we were faced with a magical emergency.

"We're in Swanley. There was a succubus that needed banishing. I didn't...I didn't know that when he said the ritual needed blood, he meant that he'd be using half his own supply." 

"Half?" Now Walid sounded very alarmed.

"Wasn't half," Nightingale interjected drowsily. "I'd be dead."

"Well no, probably not," I conceded. "But it was a lot. Too much."

"Is he still bleeding?" 

"No," I said. "I think I managed to stop it." 

"Good lad. Can you describe to me what Thomas' condition is like? Where is the wound? Are his breathing and heartrate elevated? Is he experiencing altered consciousness?"

I explained that he'd done a job on arm, was very pale, unsteady and breathing a bit fast. No idea on the heartrate, but he seemed lucid enough. While Nightingale frowned at my description, Walid made encouraging noises on the other end. When I was done, the doctor said, "I'm guessing a hospital in the area is out of the question."

"You guessed correctly." 

Walid sighed. "Bring him directly to UCH casualty as quickly as possible. I'll meet you there. Keep him warm, keep the wound elevated and get some fluids into him if you can."

"Tea?" I asked.

"That'll do just fine. And how are you, Peter?"

"I'll be better when we're back in London and Nightingale is your responsibility and not mine," I said.

"Oh, come now," Nightingale murmured.

"If there are any changes in his status, any at all, bring him to the closest hospital immediately and give me a ring," Walid said. "Otherwise, I'll see you soon."

We'd reached paved road by the time the call ended, so I tossed my mobile into my lap and stomped down on the gas pedal. Luckily there was no one else on the road, which meant I was free to drive as irresponsibly fast as I pleased. I glanced at Nightingale, who was slumped back against his seat and looking as though he was considering another journey into the land of Nod. As tired as he looked, I was worried that he wouldn't be able to make the return trip. "Dr. Walid said you should get some fluids, so drink up."

"Oh." Nightingale stared down at the mug in his hands as if surprised to see it in his hands. "London isn't going anywhere, you know," he murmured idly as he sipped at the tea. "It will be there no matter when we arrive."

I thought that was a bit rich coming from a man who sometimes reached the speed I was hitting while driving _inside_ of the city during high traffic. "If you don't want to be subjected to my driving, we can stop at the nearest casualty," I said. "Otherwise, the faster we get back, the faster Dr. Walid can tell me you're not dying," I said. 

"I'm not dying," Nightingale assured me.

"I'd rather hear it from with an actual medical degree," I replied. I'd already been warned about how good Nightingale was at hiding his discomfort.

"I wouldn't lie to you, Peter," he said seriously. "I'm quite aware of my own limits."

I imagined he must be, considering he'd had over a century to explore them. Then again, Nightingale seemed to think his limits lay beyond what Walid deemed appropriate, and when it came to matters of human endurance, cryptopathologist/gastroenterologist always trumped wizard. 

"How did you manage to do this the first time?" I asked.

"With some difficulty," he said shortly. 

"More than today?" I said, incredulous. The ritual had not exactly gone smoothly even with two of us sharing the load, although I wasn't entirely sure what I'd brought to the table other than being total crap at following directions.

"Yes." Nightingale turned to look at me. "This is a vast improvement." 

That was a bit hard to swallow. "It's a good thing I didn't know this before we did the ritual," I muttered. I definitely would have been a bit more concerned about Nightingale using his own blood to turn the gears.

"I know I ask a lot of you, Peter." He paused to take a couple breaths and then continued, "It's mostly due to necessity, but I wouldn't do so if I didn't think you capable. You've done admirably."

"If you say so," I muttered. It sure as hell didn't seem that way from my end of things. I couldn't imagine Nightingale, with his iron self-control, falling prey to the demon the way I had. "Could you see what the succubus was doing?" 

"Not how it works," he whispered. His eyelids were beginning to droop. "The haemomancy wasn't visual. Just experienced what you were feeling."

I didn't know whether it was better or worse that Nightingale didn't know that the succubus had nearly gotten into my pants because it was wearing his form. He didn't ask what had happened, but then again, I didn't think he would. I thought that perhaps it was better that way.

The conversation clearly tired Nightingale and he slipped into silence despite the random questions I resorted to throwing at him. It was too bad, because I was genuinely curious as to which Spice Girl was his favorite. I think most would have guessed Posh, but I didn't think so. As soon as we entered the metropolitan arms of London, I reached out and slapped the spinner on the roof. It probably wasn't necessary considering the time, but the sound of the siren helped to move a few late-night pub crawlers out of my way. Nightingale passed out about five minutes from the hospital, and it took some effort to rouse him once I'd skid to a halt outside of the UCH trauma center. I'd never been so fucking relieved to see the place.

"This isn't the Folly," Nightingale murmured resignedly as I helped him out.

"No," I said. "Well spotted."

He gave me a faint glare and I got the feeling the didn't appreciate my cheek. So few ever did. We staggered through the entrance, where Walid was thankfully waiting for us as promised. 

"This again?" he asked Nightingale as we settled him into a wheelchair. His eyes skittered over my governor's bloodstained clothing and the clotted towel that clung to his arm. Walid immediately started pushing Nightingale into the bowels of the trauma center at a brisk pace. I followed along, feeling like a vestigial appendage. "I thought you said succubi were rare."

"It's been over twenty years since the last one," Nightingale said. 

"Still too soon if you ask me," Walid muttered with a glance in my direction. I nodded in agreement. "You look exhausted, lad. Go home and get some sleep."

"I'd rather stay here," I said.

"I know you would," Walid said kindly. "But there's not much you can do while Thomas is being treated. Get some rest and I'll let you know when he's settled." He rushed away without waiting for my response.

I knew a dismissal from a superior in charge when I heard one. My eyes were gritty with a lack of sleep, but I didn't want to go back to the Folly by myself. I watched as they disappeared through the double doors and then faffed about the waiting room for a bit before finally making my way back to the Folly. Rather than go to my bedroom and and risk a potential run-in with Molly, I climbed the stairs to the tech cave, dropped onto the couch and was out the minute my head hit the cushions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just realized Peter does a lot of sleeping - magic is tiring work! And also, apologies for the iffy medical decisions made here...Nightingale really should have just gone to a hospital. :]


	6. Chapter 6

"Sir?" I poked my head around doorway and found Nightingale already sitting on the edge of the bed. He'd put on the stained trousers that he'd worn the previous day, but his top half was still incongruously covered in a scrub top. His left forearm was swathed in clean white bandages, but he'd already been freed of any lines and needles.

"Ah, Peter. There you are." Nightingale looked at me with open relief. He still appeared worn, but he'd recovered some of his color and his eyes were bright and alert. He was thankfully in better shape than when I'd stopped by earlier. 

"Ready to go?" I asked. I held up a small travel bag. "Molly sent some fresh clothing." She'd silently ambushed me as I'd come out of the bathroom after showering, and the scenes that followed had not been particularly dignified. I was starting to suspect that Molly found some sort of perverse delight in sneaking up on me. 

"Wonderful. I'll be ready in a moment." 

"Do you, ah, need any help?" 

Nightingale gave me a faintly amused look. "I believe I can manage to dress myself, thank you."

While I was waiting for Nightingale to change, Walid stopped by with a wheelchair and a set of instructions. "Peter, hello. You seem livelier."

"I am, sir. Much livelier." Despite how tired I'd been after dropping Nightingale off at UCH, I'd only managed a couple hours of uneasy sleep before blearily snapping awake. As promised, Walid had texted to let me know which room Nightingale was in, and I'd decided that I'd rather nap in an uncomfortable, institutional chair than in my own bed. I don't make particularly good decisions on little sleep. A strong cup of coffee had helped me stay alert long enough to stumble my way to UCH. There, I'd found Nightingale resting peacefully under the clean, sterile care of modern medicine, alive and hopefully recovering. I'd drawn my chair close to his bed, and unlike the last time he'd been laid up in hospital, I couldn't have cared less as to who saw me clutching my governor's hand like it was my favorite stuffed animal. As it was, Walid was the one that found me clinging to Nightingale and drooling onto his mattress. He'd shooed me back to the Folly, and this time, I slept for a full six hours.

"How's Nightingale doing?"

"Not too badly, all things considered," Walid said. "We gave him some blood and fluids to replace what he'd lost. The wound itself was fairly straightforward to close, but it will need some care in order to heal properly. I trust that you'll see to it Thomas follows my instructions?" Walid phrased it as a question, but we both knew it was basically an order.

"Of course," I replied obediently. 

"Good." The doctor handed me a brown paper bag containing a tube of antibiotic cream and sterile gauze, and repeated the strict advice he'd already given to Nightingale. "I want him to take it easy for at least a couple more days, and that means no magic. Thomas knows that I expect to see him in a few days for a check-in. See to it that he doesn't forget." It was nice that Walid thought I had any control over what my governor did.

The door to Nightingale's room opened and he stepped out dressed in a dark pair of jeans and a light grey polo shirt that was neatly tucked in. The shirt was probably the only thing that he owned that was off the rack, and it still looked as though it was tailor-made for him. From the clothes she'd sent along, it was clear that Molly also fully expected him to spend the day relaxing. What wasn't clear was how she'd figured out that he was in hospital in the first place. Nightingale's eyebrows rose when he saw us. "Conspiring, are we?"

"Paranoia isn't a good look on you, Thomas," Walid commented. He gestured towards the chair. "You know the drill, in you go."

"This really isn't necessary, you know," Nightingale muttered even as he slowly lowered himself down. "My legs are perfectly fine."

"Oh no, this isn't for your sake," Walid said blithely as he pushed my governor along. "This is so the hospital can ensure you don't take a wee slip while exiting our fine facility and sue us for neglect."

Despite the fact that UCH was an easily walkable distance from the Folly, I had brought the Jag with me because I thought that Nightingale would appreciate it, and quiet little sigh as he settled into the front passenger seat told me I wasn't wrong. "How are you doing, Peter? I do hope there weren't any ill effects from last night?" 

"No. I'm fine, thanks."

"That's good," he said. He relaxed back into his seat as I pulled away from the curb and looked out the window. "Any plans for the day?"

"I have another sit down with DPS later in the afternoon," I said. "Until then, I thought I'd catch up on some more paperwork." Working at an SAU that had only very recently become modernized meant that all notes from previous cases were hardcopy only. Between Nightingale's untidy handwriting and his haphazard filing system - haphazard in that he had none - transferring all the relevant information into HOLMES was taking about twice as long as it should have. Luckily, I was currently burdened with an excess of free time.

"You'll be practicing as well?" 

It wasn't really a a question, and there was really only one answer I could give. "Yeah, of course. Dr. Walid said no magic for you, though."

Nightingale sighed with mild annoyance. "I know. Abdul is a very cautious man." I didn't think that was necessarily a bad trait for a doctor to have.

Molly was there to greet us when we arrived back at the Folly. I say 'us', but her attention was all for Nightingale. As if sensing her anxiety, he allowed himself to be escorted up to his bedroom, and tossed a glance over his shoulder at me as they retreated. "Thank you for the ride, Peter."

"No problem," I muttered as I watched them walk away. Nightingale wore denim perhaps once a year, and I wondered whether I could convince him to wear it more often.

Now that the succubus had been dealt with and Nightingale was no longer in danger of dying from hypovolemic shock, my mind had started to wander back to the conversation we'd left off on our first drive up to Swanley. I needed to know whether Nightingale really viewed me as a one-off, but chasing after him with my insecurities flapping in the wind seemed a bit inconsiderate, especially when he still looked as though standing firm against a stiff breeze might be a challenge. More importantly, it simply didn't feel like it was my place to do so. 

Since I'd already committed to the idea of paperwork - it allowed me the illusion that I was still working rather than waiting around for DPS to make up their minds as to whether they'd nail my thumbs to the wall - I decided to let it distract me and made my way to the tech cave to settle in with a pile of old case files. The list of people that either had significant contact with Geoffrey Wheatcroft or the OG Faceless Man was not trivial, and it had cast a far more sinister light on some of the cases Nightingale had attended when he'd still been alone. Reading through them had been enlightening, if only because it made me appreciate how good and fast the Met PR team was at spinning mundane explanations for magical crimes. I'd had no idea that the "sinkhole" that had supposedly delayed the demolition of a bridge over Regent's Canal in Bethnal Green had actually been a very disgruntled troll that was supremely unhappy about her eviction.

I was trying to figure out whether Nightingale had actually written some of his notes in Greek when there was a polite rap on the door. There was only one other person living in the Folly that would bother to knock, and it wasn't Molly. Varvara didn't count.

"Come in," I called. 

The door opened to reveal Nightingale, as I'd expected. He looked at all the papers around me and looked a bit taken aback at the sheer volume of dead trees I'd gathered. "I hope you don't mind the interruption."

"Er, no," I said. I hastily gathered up some of the files and dropped them on the floor to clear some space for him. "Did you need something, sir?"

He came and perched himself next to me on the chaise longue. "A moment of your time, if you would. I believe there is something we need to discuss."

"Okay," I agreed. I'd wanted this moment, but now I felt a wild flutter of apprehension. 

Nightingale was sitting close enough to me that I could feel the heat radiating off his body. The man was like a furnace despite the cool paleness that still clung to him, and I idly wondered if it had anything to do with the magic that was supposedly sustaining his life and turning him into a real-life Benjamin Button. Was magic inherently thermogenic? Was there a way we could package the effects and sell it as a metabolism booster and miracle anti-aging pill? We'd never have to worry about the Folly's budget ever again. Not that I ever did; that was a DCI's arena. 

Nightingale leaned back and casually crossed his legs, his elegant hands resting loosely on his thighs. His face was solemn, and the entirety of his immense focus zeroed in on me. I'm not going to lie - the weight of his full, intense attention was a bit intimidating, but also really fucking sexy. 

"Peter," he started, his voice low and grave. "First of all, I want to make sure you understand that I take our relationship as master and apprentice very seriously. In my personal opinion, this is a partnership that must be rooted in mutual respect, otherwise it's simply ineffective. Do you agree?"

Mutual respect. Sure. I nodded and put on my best attentive student face. 

"And if you ever have a grievance with me, I do hope that you'd feel comfortable enough to air them."

There was fat chance of that ever happening, but I nodded again anyway, wanting to get to the point already. I preferred ripping bandages off, and Nightingale was doing me no favors by slowly peeling this one away, painfully yanking out one body hair at a time. 

"Good. As long as that's clear," he said. "Now. I'll be the first to admit that I sometimes have trouble following your train of thought, but I must say that I'm truly struggling to understand what might be going on inside your head regarding our...liaison. Why the devil would you think I'd take you to bed out of pity? Do you believe that I'd think so lowly of you?" He sounded genuinely puzzled.

If I could have slithered out of my seat and disappeared into the floor, I would have. "How else am I supposed to interpret it when you tell me that you had sex with me because I looked sad and you felt sorry for me? That's pretty much the definition of a pity fuck."

Nightingale pinched the bridge of his nose and squeezed his eyes shut. "Ah. I suppose that wasn't the best way to phrase it," he murmured. "I can assure you that pity was the last thing on my mind, Peter." He settled his sincere gaze back on me and I found myself willing to buy what he was selling, for better or for worse. "Is that why you left?" he asked hesitantly.

"No. It honestly didn't cross my mind until recently." I took a deep breath. "Can I ask a personal question?" 

"You may," Nightingale said, emphasizing the _may_. That was my governor, ever vigilant against grammatical crimes.

"Are you gay? I mean in the sense that you prefer blokes."

Nightingale's eyebrow lifted. "I'm aware of what the term means, Peter," he said dryly. "I would have rather thought the answer was obvious to you by now."

Yeah, maybe it was and maybe I was violating the Equality Act Regulations with regard to sexual orientation (20-fucking-10) by asking so blatantly, but I needed to hear him say it. "So you are."

Nightingale's chin tilted up with a hint of defiance, and I saw a century of homophobia and societal condemnation in that small movement, but he looked me straight in the eye when he answered, "Yes. My preferred partners have been men."

I let out a big sigh. "I'm not. Queer, I mean. I've only ever been interested in women."

A sickening mix of remorse and self-recrimination briefly flashed in his eyes before his expression shuttered and became white stone. Nightingale's gaze shifted and he stared straight into middle distance. "I'd gathered that. Peter, I can't apologize enough for forcing - " 

The crestfallen note in my governor's voice must have prompted some sort of rash boldness in me, because I grabbed at his uninjured arm before he could finish and held it firmly in my grip. He looked startled and went silent, but thankfully didn't pull away. I wouldn't have had the courage to continue if he had. "I'm not done yet. Sir," I added. I suddenly realized that I had no idea whether we were speaking as governor and apprentice, boss and subordinate, colleagues, or just...friends? Was I friends with Nightingale? That was a another question for another day. "I'll admit that I might not have been in the best state of mind that day, but trust me when I say that you didn't force me to do anything I didn't want to do. Actually, I'm fairly certain that I'm the one that made a pass at you."

"Alright," Nightingale said carefully. He was holding himself very, very still.

"It was a shock to the system, to discover I might be something other straight," I continued in a rush. "I needed some time to come to terms with it." And apparently, I'd also needed a succubus digging around in my brain. "Not that it's any excuse for the running. That was a first for me too - I normally don't run away after fantastic sex."

It was like sun coming out from behind storm clouds; although his expression barely changed, his entire demeanor brightened and I swear that Nightingale's grey eyes lightened into a beautiful slate blue. "I'm sure it was," was all he said. I didn't know whether he was referring to my shock or to the sex.

"So yeah, I just wanted to clear that up," I finished lamely. "I really am sorry about that. I know I could have handled it better, but I promise I won't leg it next time." 

Well shit, that just slipped out. Not that I was planning on taking it back. I let it hang there and watched closely as Nightingale's eyebrows took a trip north. "Next time?" he asked. There was tentative hope in his voice and I lightly rubbed my thumb along the inside of his wrist in response.

"If you'd like," I said, going for easy nonchalance and missing the mark entirely. I heard Nightingale's breathing pick up just a bit. Meanwhile, my own heart was doing its best impression of a jackhammer and well on its way to drilling a hole through my ribcage. My governor smiled at me, and it promised all sorts of secret, lovely things. I really hoped at least some of those things involved getting our mitts on each other, preferably without our clothes in the way. Nightingale cautiously placed his free hand over the mine and gave it a gentle little squeeze.

"I'd like that very much," he murmured quietly. 

For a moment we just sat and stared at each other. The top button at the collar of his polo shirt was free, and the little stretch of bare skin that was peeking out at the base of his throat was almost scandalously tempting. I belatedly remembered that he wasn't a rare museum piece on display - just for looking and no touching - so I leaned in towards him, determined to at least get a good snog out of the whole encounter and then see where it would go. 

He met me halfway and when my mouth found his, I kid you not that birds began to sing and actual sparks shot into the air like celebratory fireworks. _Congratulations Peter, you're a winner!_ My fingers found its way to the nape of his neck and then slid up into his hair, and Nightingale gave a throaty little moan against my lips when my fingers tightened. His hands languidly wandered all about my body, lightly gliding across my shoulders, down my arms, and up my chest. Whenever his fingertips happened to brush against my bare skin, it sent pleasant little shivers down my spine. He deepened the kiss and by the time he began to gently nudge at me, I was already boneless and flopped back easily. I imagined that we could have gone at it like this for hours - or at least a few minutes before one of us passed out from lack of air, because neither of us was particularly interested in breathing - until Nightingale did something entirely unfair with his teeth. I bucked up into him, and the bandaged arm that he'd propped himself on slipped off the edge of the couch cushion and sent him tumbling to the floor. I grabbed at him, but to no avail.

"Oh, _shit_." I rolled over onto my side an stared down at my governor, who was sprawled on the rug looking a bit stunned. Clearly, the chaise longue hadn't been designed for anything more active than sitting. "Sir? Are you okay?"

Nightingale looked up at me and let out a rare, breathless little bark of laughter, the corners of his eyes crinkling with genuine amusement. He looked incredibly young, then. Coupled with the flushed cheeks and hair in disarray - you're very welcome - he looked gorgeously undone. I had no problem imagining him leaving a trail of yearning wizards in his wake, including yours truly. "'Sir'? Peter, wouldn't you say we're a bit past that now?" 

"It seemed better than 'boss' or 'guv'," I replied. Believe it or not, this issue hadn't come up the first time around. I hadn't had enough composure to form actual words back then. I was barely clinging to coherence now.

Nightingale pushed himself upright and leaned back against the coffee table. It was a good thing he hadn't bashed his head against it on the way down. "How about Thomas?" He asked it lightly, but his eyes, which had darkened to graphite, were serious.

"Thomas." I rolled his given name around on my tongue a bit. It tasted a bit unfamiliar and saying it gave me a sweet little thrill, like I'd nicked a bit of cake before supper. "It...might take some getting used to."

"I hope that you'll have many opportunities to acquaint yourself with it," he said, and I nearly groaned in anticipation. We both understood that this would be a private thing. If I waltzed around crime scenes calling my governor 'Thomas', we'd be sussed out in no time; it was one of the drawbacks of being surrounded by coppers. Or anyone with the sense of a cow. Nightingale - Thomas - tipped forward, his gaze intense, and my heart rate sped up in what I suspected would soon become a Pavlovian response. "Are you absolutely certain you want this, Peter?"

It spoke to how much I'd spooked him when I ran, that he'd still be giving me a way out now, right after we'd gotten off like horny teenagers. I leaned forward as well, my eyes never leaving his. "More than anything."

His pupils widened and nearly swallowed the irises. "Excellent," he breathed. "In that case, shall we relocate to a room that has more accommodating furniture?"

Honestly, I would have been perfectly fine joining him on the floor, but Nightingale - _Thomas_ \- was already getting to his feet. He offered me his hand to help me up and I accepted. I then showed my appreciation of his good manners by giving him another hungry kiss. We eventually made it into the Folly proper and managed to avoid bumping into either Molly or, God forbid, Varvara. Even though we were on our best behavior as we walked over, I still felt like I was wearing a flashing neon sign that declared 'I'm about to bang my governor' around my neck. His bedroom was closer, and once we crossed its threshold, all pretense of self-control was thrown out the window. Clothes were shed - not nearly quickly enough for either of us - and we fell back on his bed. I made a somewhat half-hearted attempt to be mindful of his wounded arm, but a growl of hot frustration suggested that he didn't think much of my consideration. Besides, any good intentions I might have had soon became drowned out by the giddy, blood-rushing joy of having his body moving against mine.

However long afterwards - minutes, hours, days - we stretched out on top of his feather duvet, panting and sweaty and utterly satisfied. Thomas lay on his front, lazy and relaxed like a long, pale cat. He regarded me with his eyelids at half-mast and cautiously said my name. "What are you thinking?"

I reclined on my side and glided the palm of my hand over his back, marveling at how smooth his skin was as I traveled over the bumps of his spine and planes of surprisingly solid muscle. He sighed and the corners of his lips curled up into a content smile. My fingers found one of the small round scars he carried, this one tucked just under his right shoulder blade, and I carefully circled around it with my fingertips. "I'm thinking that this was fucking brilliant."

"We're in agreement, then," he murmured. 

He was as happy and mellow as I'd ever seen him, and I can say with authority that the post-coital glow really suited him. It upset me a bit, to think that I'd stolen these moments from both of us the first time around, and that I might not have ever gotten a chance to witness my governor looking so loose and blissed out. It was most certainly a huge improvement on the look of tight stress I'd left on his face the last time. My hand continued its possessive journey and he hummed with approval when I found my way back up into his hair. I didn't particularly like having my hair touched, but it turned out that Thomas didn't mind it at all. The tasty little noises I drew from him were convincing me - all of me - that an encore was needed.

"I'd suggest another go-around, but I don't think this is what the doctor had in mind when he told you to take it easy," I said casually. 

His smile turned mischievous and my God, I'd be saving that expression for times when I had to be alone in bed. "It was quite strenuous, wasn't it?"

"Although," I continued, "I've also heard that sex can be healing."

Thomas' eyebrow lifted in interest. "Is that so?"

"It's theoretically due to the release of hormones and other happy-making chemicals that can help the repair process."

"Well, I'll admit that I feel much better now than I did before." He reached out and began to trace a finger along my chest. "Perhaps we should explore this idea further." I nodded eagerly - it was exactly what I was hoping to hear - and rolled towards him, but he held me back. "Didn't you mention an interview with DPS?" 

This time I groaned, but not with pleasure. I hadn't thought anything could kill my mood while Thomas was spread out before me, bare as the day he was born a very, very long time ago, but I was wrong. A glance at the delightfully old-fashioned analog alarm clock that was ticking away on his nightstand told me that I was going to be severely frowned at if I didn't get moving.

As I fumbled my jeans back on, Nightingale reached for my shirt and handed it back to me. "Will you be alright?" he asked. He wasn't referring to my DPS interview.

"I will be, as long we can test our theory after I get back," I said.

A sweet, hungry grin graced his lips and I don't think I'd ever seen him smile so much. Something warm spread through my chest. "I'd be amenable to that," he said mildly, sliding his hands along my ribs.

I might have been a bit late to my meeting with DPS. Totally worth it, though.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for sticking it out! Until next time...

**Author's Note:**

> Hello and thanks for reading! 
> 
> This is un-betaed so all current and future mistakes, plot holes, overly convenient events and inconsistencies are mine. Err...hope you enjoy? ;)


End file.
